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 The Sleeping Venus, sir? Nothing can be more delicate than the entire contour of the figure, the flow of the hair on the shoulders and neck, the form of the feet and fingers. It is altogether a most delicate morsel.

Why, in that sense, perhaps, it is as delicate as whitebait in July. But the attitude, sir, the attitude.

Nothing can be more natural, sir.

That is the very thing, sir. It is too natural: too natural, sir: it lies for all the world like I make no doubt, the pious cheesemonger, who recently broke its plaster fac-simile over the head of the itinerant vendor, was struck by a