There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. Besides these, there was a sturdylooking fellow, whom he instantly recognised as the honest blacksmith who had freed him from his irons at Tottenham. “Is it your maid?” he asked. Then he sensed the trap. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. His little doll. Don’t imagine that. She stared at him.
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