“Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. E. 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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