“How CAN I tell him?” whispered Miss Stanley. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. Stanley in person. The eminent painter had handsome, expressive features, an aquiline nose, and a good deal of dignity in his manner. In those revolutionary times one had to be prepared. .
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