‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. 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. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. His sword then came in for his scrutiny: he felt at, and appeared satisfied with its edge. "What would my poor mother say to it?" "I was sorry to see that about your mother, Jack," observed Hogarth. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all.
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