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. Earles recovered his spirits. Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. . He is big and powerful; one of those drinkers who show it but little outwardly. “Have you no understanding of your own advanced history classes? You want to look like a brainwashed Nazi anti-Semite?” Lucy became angry, her nostrils flaring. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him. But on this matter my mind is quite made up.
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