“My dear,” she said, when she could get her breath, “you must come home at once. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. ’ A scowl crossed the lady’s face.
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