She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones. And I don’t. Gerald took Madame’s hand and kissed the fingers with a little more warmth than punctilio demanded. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead. He contrasted the lot of women in general with the lot of men, presented men as patient, self-immolating martyrs, and women as the pampered favorites of Nature. “You must remember,” she said, “that you yourself are responsible for your altered looks.
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