His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. I speak no harm of her. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. “You must not. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres.
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