Her head ached with a hollow pain. "Your answer, gem'men?" demanded Sharples. Do you want me, too?” “Yes,” she whispered foolishly, in the throes of rapture. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. ‘We’ll have you right out of the way, just in case. I do not think you quite understand my ideals or what is becoming as between father and daughter. Almost the best of all. Don’t go back into Victorian respectability and pretend you don’t know and you can’t think and all the rest of it.
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