Only her face was clear, frail and delicate, almost flower-like, with the sad haunting eyes ever watching his. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. ‘Wait, Jacques! I will find the way to open this. Ah! but you can’t imagine what you are to me and what you mean to me! I suppose there is something mystical and wonderful about all women.
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