"I cannot—dare not injure him," rejoined Trenchard, with a haggard look, and sinking, as if paralysed, into a chair. We smirk, and we’re a bit—furtive. “Feel better. "I've a good deal to do. As to the picture, I'll keep it myself, though, if you do go I shall need no memorial of you. "I am Owen Wood, at your service. For a short time they allowed me to share the warmth of their lives. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting. Take care of the old clothesman, and leave the rest to me.
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