The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. His ideas about girls and women were of a sentimental and modest quality; they were creatures, he thought, either too bad for a modern vocabulary, and then frequently most undesirably desirable, or too pure and good for life. But of what use to wear it when there was no one of importance to see and admire? ‘For shame, Melusine,’ protested Lucy, as the butler bowed himself out of the room.
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