Her little white hand stole across the table. That was Leonardo’s motto. Arrived in Paris she remembered that she had not the money for a fiacre. “I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. I want you to turn me. That's the only fault I know of. . So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. But she did not talk readily, and in order to say something she plunged a little, and felt she plunged.
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