Then to the Feathers, in Drury Lane. 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. ‘Not kill me, I mean. “I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. This double buffetting had sharpened her shrewdness and insight.
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