He then mounted the jaded hack, which had long since regained its legs, and was quietly browsing the grass at the road-side, and, striking spurs into its side, rode off. She saw his eyes glaze over. \" She replied. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. . When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. She could not see clearly. ‘You have a knack of saying just the wrong thing.
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