There were rooms and rooms full of ladies with nothing on at all. Some of them lay on beds, gazing at you pensively. Some sat up, turned this way or that from the hips to exhibit their soft back curves, while others faced their beholders squarely erect, with something like defiance in their eyes and a metallic quality about their bold fronts expressive of womankind's underrated hardihood.
They are not an unusual sight at the annual spring salon in the Grand Palais, where all the artists of Paris carry their best work...
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