” She turned a firelit face to her husband. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. And Pottiswick, of course. ‘How so?’ he asked, and she noted that he allowed his pistol to dangle a little from his fingers. ” She caressed his cheek seductively with her left palm and he closed his eyes in dreamy anticipation.
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