Gianfrancesco ran from the room, tearing at his hair. I must take you to the Suffrage people, and the Tolstoyans, and the Fabians. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. “All right, Dunster,” he said. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. “We don’t let to ladies,” they said.
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