I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. "You do love me?" "God knows how much!" Suddenly he laid his head on her shoulder. ” “You love—Anna?” she exclaimed. “Of course I will,” he answered. But "fine" is the word. I made Hainault’s acquaintance, stood him drinks, lent him money. 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. Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man.
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