There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. Are you prepared to do it?” Her hands clenched. Me, you may have. He watched her constantly, trapped her in corners and slept with his arms locking her like a human cage. Of course there are, millions of them.
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