He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. “Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. 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.
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