Anna was unimpressed. “Agreed,” he said with queer exaltation, and his grip tightened on her hand. " "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. A day will come when you will thank me. " With no little effort—for the right words had a way of tumbling back out of reach—he marshalled his phrases, and as he uttered them, closed his eyes to lessen the possibility of a break. 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. Sheppard let fall her basket. Move.
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