The lighting-up pierced the obscurity of the box, and Ramage stopped his urgent flow of words abruptly and sat back. He had one son, who had been co-educated, and three daughters with peculiarly jolly red hair that Ann Veronica found adorable. For the past four weeks mirrors had been her delight, a new toy. But Jack was too nimble for him. 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. ‘I do not believe you.
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