From this spot a road, more resembling the drive through a park than a public thoroughfare, led him gradually to the brow of Dollis Hill. 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. But she made a pretence of struggling a little, for it would be out of character for her not to do so and she did not want to arouse his suspicions. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself.
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