Lucy clutched the pencil in defeat. She looked about, watching a massive green storm cloud building in the west. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. "You mistake,—you are mine. Cold drops stood upon Wood's brow, as he encountered this obstacle.
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