” “That’s horrible!” He gasped. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. ‘Merci, dieu. We'll have some fun down there at my place, Spurlock; but we'll probably bore your wife to death. Recollect, he's chained to the ground by a great horse-padlock, and is never unloosed except when he comes to that hatch. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man.
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