A blow from the iron bar instantly stretched the ruffian on the floor. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. The open windows were above them now and, unless the intruder were to lean out, they could not possibly be seen.
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