” With a murmured word of excuse she glided away, and Courtlaw, who had come with a mission which seemed to him to be one of life or death, was left to listen to the latest art jargon from Chelsea. “He wants to settle something on you, I believe. "Begone! or I fire!" he cried. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut.
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