Dear me, what a nuisance it is to have a pseudo husband shot down upon one from the skies. 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. Her eyes where glassy and shining. “Don’t come nearer!” she said. The charm of innocence breathes around her, as fragrance is diffused by the flower, sanctifying her lightest thought and action, and shielding her, like a spell, from the approach of evil. . ’ ‘Did no one know, then?’ ‘No, for the vicomte, we learned later, wrote to General Lord Charvill in pursuit of his sister. He grunted a little with effort, and she realised the gilt frame must be heavy. ‘You know about that?’ ‘It was the only possible deduction. And I passed myself off as Meysey Hill, and since—then—I haven’t had a minute’s peace. She had a warm, fun-loving personality, and an unflattering disrespect for her future husband’s authority.
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