It is only the women matter. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. ‘How do you like England?’ ‘People have been very kind,’ Valade said, answering for them both. The face of the man who lay there was clearly visible. We were worried.
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