Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. It has all been a mistake. The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly. He deserves none. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound. It consisted of a close jerkin of brown frieze, ornamented with a triple row of brass buttons; loose Dutch slops, made very wide in the seat and very tight at the knees; red stockings with black clocks, and a fur cap. From beginning to end it was first-hand stuff.
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