Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. She was as pale as death, but she seemed to have lost the power of movement. Kneebone—she was too well acquainted; having, more than once, been obliged to repel his advances; and, though his impertinence would have given her little concern at another season, it now added considerably to her distraction. I worshipped women long before I found any woman I might ever hope to worship.
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