Pragmar probably knew Mr. Father— dead. “Yes! I must! The thing is becoming a torture to me. Mac's. 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 watched you wait at the farmhouse! But I couldn’t compromise your safety! You must have realized that!” She lowered her voice to a loud whisper. "Then it's all over with us.
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