It was the size of my palm. ‘Madame, I trust I see you well?’ ‘Merci. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. Ann Veronica loved beautiful things, and the beauty of undraped loveliness not least among them; but these were pictures that did but insist coarsely upon the roundness of women’s bodies. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster.
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