You go to your room and ring for your maid. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. “I’m really very sorry. " "It was her own fault," observed Blueskin, moodily. You are not my husband. I sit back now, letting life slip by and musing upon it; and I find my loneliness sweet.
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