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. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. Vexation at his folly in suffering himself to be thus entrapped kept Wood for a short time silent. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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