She is, in her way, a dear. We have known men who have come here for no other purpose than to prove their unassailable virtue, who have strode into the arena of temptation, waving the—the what is it—the white flower of a blameless life, only to exchange it with marvellous facility for the violets of the Parisienne. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. She was as fair as the lily of the lotus. I had no curiosity of that kind. “Excellent!” he exclaimed.
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