She sat very still, and his eyes rested on that ornament for a moment, and then travelled slowly to her wrist and the soft lines of her forearm. And if he won’t—” But she did not give even unspoken words to the alternative at that time. ‘Jacques?’ ‘No. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. She loved to be there, taking part in it all, breathing it, being it. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. "If you'll write them, I'll illustrate them," observed Hogarth.
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