’ ‘How can it be in dispute?’ frowned Mrs Sindlesham. This gloom was impossible. His voice propelled her to cry even harder, so hard that she began to laugh behind her tears. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug.
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