Paris, 18. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. 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. Abruptly she desisted, recoiled, and turned and fled up-stairs.
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