For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud. 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. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband. ‘Thought you were going to break in here,’ he said, in an impatient whisper.
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