It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. She was feeling extraordinarily well that night, so that the sense of her body was a deep delight, a realization of a gentle warmth and strength and elastic firmness. We mustn’t make it so. I’d only have to do something about it, and that I can’t. She reminded him sometimes of the one holy and ineffable Madonna, at others of Berode, the great courtezan of her day, who had sent kings away from her doors, and had just announced her intention of ending her life in a convent.
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