’ ‘All the way to England?’ She opened wide eyes. ’ Mrs Prudence Sindlesham, a widow of several years’ standing, so she told Gerald, was a scarecrow of a female, long and lank of limb in a figure that had once been willowy. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. 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. ’ ‘Do you indeed?’ rejoined the old lady, twinkling at him, and urging him towards the door. I’ve just seen him. She was beauty, the key of magic, the teacher of spells, the predictor of wars, and the gate of the future.
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