Michelle was in sight, Lucy could hear her voice, high in the crowd, and saw her blond head bobbing among a sea of faces. “Manning,” she said, and contemplated a figure of inaggressive persistence. White assured her. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. You'll do. He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. You yourself, I am sure, recognize how impossible you have made it for me now to do anything of the sort.
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