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"Stunning, isn't it?" he said then, giving her arm an affectionate pressure.
"Yes, it's all right. What business is it of yours?"
Charley turned his head sharply. No one had ever asked him a question like that about a picture before. "What on earth d'you mean? It's one of the great portraits of the world. Titian, you know." "I daresay. But what's it got to do with you?" Charley didn't quite know what to say. "Well, it's a very fine picture and it's beautifully painted. Of course it doesn't tell a story if that's what you mean." "No, I don't," she smiled. "I don't suppose it's got anything to do with me really." "Then why should you bother about it?"
William Somerset Maugham (25 January 1874 – 16 December 1965) was an English playwright, novelist, and short story writer; often published as simply W. Somerset Maugham.
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For men, as a rule, love is but an episode which takes place among the other affairs of the day, and the emphasis laid on it in novels gives it an importance which is untrue to life. There are few men to whom it is the most important thing in the world, and they are not the very interesting ones; even women, with whom the subject is of paramount interest, have a contempt for them.
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