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She thought of the marvellous beauty of skin, and all the delightfulness of living texture. Mr. I know. He pulled away. Get it off your soul. “Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. They were now in a sort of cellar, at one end of which was a door. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece. He wondered if, after all, McClintock wasn't nearest the truth, that Ruth was one of those unfortunate yet innocent women who make havoc with the hearts of men. I’ve been thinking, you know—I’m not sure that primarily the perception of beauty isn’t just intensity of feeling free from pain; intensity of perception without any tissue destruction.
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