Understanding the appeal, the man snatched his master's sword from his grasp, and passed it through Darrell's body. She had unaccountable gleams of sympathy with and liking for him. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. 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. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. I care not.
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