He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. “Forgive you, indeed. They mean everything that women can mean—except submission. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. My reply to all of them has been the same. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. White, my landlady, believes his story.
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