She crawled underneath the soft white sheets, reclining and pulling the blankets up to her chin. I get the worst headaches. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. “It’s a way of avoiding explanations. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. You must say farewell to her, for I cannot. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. Have we not received Lady Bicknacre just this morning? Not to mention the Comtesse de St Erme.
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