"A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. Sheppard. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. "Jack," exclaimed the widow, starting up and drawing back the curtain. She lived, he noted, very carelessly. The noise startled the apprentice, who instantly suspended his labour, and gazed anxiously in the direction whence he supposed it proceeded. 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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