Come along, you mad jade. “I do hope I have been able to make you understand how I feel, that you don’t consider me a hopeless prig. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. “Oh, yes,” the stranger remarked good-humouredly. “I’m not coarse—no! But I’ve got no purity of mind—no real purity of mind. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. "Your son," answered the boy. I’m convinced that much of Russell’s investigations are on wrong lines, unsound lines.
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