She stood, as it were, directed doorward, with her eyes watching every movement, listening to him, repelled by him and yet dimly understanding. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ” She propped herself up on the massive oaken post of the bed, feeling the paralysis tingle her legs as it left them ever so slowly. Section 2. Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. A light was visible in the garret, feebly struggling through the damp atmosphere, for the night was raw and overcast.
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