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. Spurlock mused over the previous night. There was no answer. “There is no remedy, girls,” she began, breathlessly, “except the Vote. She had, poor inexperienced fool, given herself away. I'll be wanting my sixteen thousand.
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