Pity you aren’t under my command. “I am glad,” she told herself, “I came. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice. . She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent. It was an odd little encounter, that left vague and dubitable impressions in her mind.
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