He said that for him beauty justified life, that he could not imagine a good action that was not a beautiful one nor any beautiful thing that could be altogether bad. ‘You see, it is that my papa, he is without sympathy,’ said the lady sadly. She hesitated. Then his beard was of a reddish hue, and his complexion warm and sanguine. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten.
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