“Your sex is a terrible fraud. But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. Their heads touched again, their arms tightened. Keep your eye upon the lad. Nigel Ennison, Annabel.
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