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. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. “Do you play an instrument?” “I play the fiddle sometimes. Plainly.
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