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"Oh, I think it's a trifle romantic," she replied "But that's Czesky. He made me quite cross, the feminine presentation of America, the spoiled woman who has shed responsibilities and is beginning to have a glimpse just a little one of the emptiness of it all." I was stirred. "Then why do you accept it, if it isn't you?" I demanded. "One doesn't refuse Czesky's canvases," she replied.
"Oh, I think it's a trifle romantic," she replied "But that's Czesky. He made me quite cross, the feminine presentation of America, the spoiled woman who has shed responsibilities and is beginning to have a glimpse just a little one of the emptiness of it all." I was stirred. "Then why do you accept it, if it isn't you?" I demanded. "One doesn't refuse Czesky's canvases," she replied.
"Oh, I think it's a trifle romantic," she replied "But that's Czesky. He made me quite cross, the feminine presentation of America, the spoiled woman who has shed responsibilities and is beginning to have a glimpse just a little one of the emptiness of it all." I was stirred. "Then why do you accept it, if it isn't you?" I demanded. "One doesn't refuse Czesky's canvases," she replied.
Hambleton Durrett, painted in Paris the autumn before by a Polish artist then much in vogue, Stanislaus Czesky. Nancy was it Nancy? was standing facing me, tall, superb in the maturity of her beauty, with one hand resting on an antique table, a smile upon her lips, a gentle mockery in her eyes as though laughing at the world she adorned.
Hambleton Durrett, painted in Paris the autumn before by a Polish artist then much in vogue, Stanislaus Czesky. Nancy was it Nancy? was standing facing me, tall, superb in the maturity of her beauty, with one hand resting on an antique table, a smile upon her lips, a gentle mockery in her eyes as though laughing at the world she adorned.
Hambleton Durrett, painted in Paris the autumn before by a Polish artist then much in vogue, Stanislaus Czesky. Nancy was it Nancy? was standing facing me, tall, superb in the maturity of her beauty, with one hand resting on an antique table, a smile upon her lips, a gentle mockery in her eyes as though laughing at the world she adorned.
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