” “Of how beautiful my children would be?” He finished her sentence. He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. ‘I can’t think how I’ve tolerated myself all these years. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. They used to marry us off at seventeen, rush us into things before we had time to protest. As he returned to the table, he put his finger to his nose; and, though he said nothing, he thought he had a much better chance of winning his wager.
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