" "Don't say anything about it, dear Mrs. Don't be alarmed by their manners, Mr. Figg, the noted prize-fighter, from the New Amphitheatre in Marylebone Fields. “Married already,” he said, with his mouth full. 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. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head.
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