“And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. He was a bad dog; he knew it perfectly; but where there was laughter, there was hope. Burn your palette and your easel. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Ask your own conscience. .
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