It was the sing-song girl idea, magnified many diameters. Clientèle was of the most transitory character. Miss Charvill. He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. She almost laughed, but repressed her smile lest it seem cruel.
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