"My limbs feel so light, now that my irons are removed," he observed with a smile, "that I am half inclined to dance. 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. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. Wrenching his hands from her shoulders, she thrust them away and leapt up from the chair. The race began once more; but this time Ruth knew that there would be no escape. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. My janizaries are without.
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