There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. He had made himself master of the layout of the house, that was plain. ’ ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ snapped the general, jerking to and fro as his agitation mounted. “What can one say?” she exclaimed. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. 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. It would have given me intense satisfaction to have been able to catch a French spy.
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