It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. He was continually dramatizing the future, anticipating the singular role he had elected to play. A few more minutes, and she was safe. He had need of all the inexhaustible energy of his character to support him through his toilsome walk over the wet grass, or along the slippery ploughed land. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing. She was to see Capes to-morrow, but now, in this state of misery she had achieved, she felt assured he would turn his back upon her, take no notice of her at all. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree.
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