Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. 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. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations.
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