The phone did not ring. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. One mistress enough to ruin a man,—two, the devil. "Come here," said the petticoated tyrant. And pouring the contents of a small powderflask into a bumper of brandy, he tendered him the mixture. Anna jumped into a waiting hansom.
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