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Wyant, emerging from the first plunge of wonder, turned inquiringly toward his companions. Neither had moved. Miss Lombard stood with her hand on the cord, her lids lowered, her mouth drooping; the doctor, his strange Thoth-like profile turned toward his guest, was still lost in rapt contemplation of his treasure. Wyant addressed the young girl.
But he wouldn't let me he will never let me now." Wyant was startled by her use of the present tense. Her look surprised him, too: there was a strange fixity of resentment in her innocuous eye. Was it possible that she was laboring under some delusion? Or did the pronoun not refer to her father? "You mean that Doctor Lombard did not wish you to part with the picture?"
"Again pardon me," the young man at length ventured, "but are you by chance the friend of the illustrious Doctor Lombard?" "No," returned Wyant, with the instinctive Anglo-Saxon distrust of foreign advances. Then, fearing to appear rude, he said with a guarded politeness: "Perhaps, by the way, you can tell me the number of his house. I see it is not given here."
"I don't hear any one," said Wyant, listening. "Try to tell me." "How can I make you understand? It would take so long to explain." She drew a deep breath, and then with a plunge "Will you come here again this afternoon at about five?" she whispered. "Come here again?" "Yes you can ask to see the picture, make some excuse.
But I liked a picnic, too, or a pretty walk through the woods with young people of my own age. I say it's more natural, Mr. Wyant; one may have a feeling for art, and do crayons that are worth framing, and yet not give up everything else. I was taught that there were other things." Wyant, half-ashamed of provoking these innocent confidences, could not resist another question.
Justine reseated herself, and the vigil began again. The second hour ebbed slowly ah, no, it was flying now! Her eyes were on the hands of the clock and they seemed leagued against her to devour the precious minutes. And now she could see by certain spasmodic symptoms that another crisis of pain was approaching one of the struggles that Wyant, at times, had almost seemed to court and exult in.
It was the sixteenth day since the accident, and the resources of alleviation were almost exhausted. It was not sure, even now, that Bessy was going to die and she was certainly going to suffer a long time. Wyant seemed hardly conscious of the increase of pain his whole mind was fixed on the prognosis. What matter if the patient suffered, as long as he proved his case?
Edward Moran's "Brush Burning" is capital. Room 54, the last of the American historical rooms, is perhaps the most important, finely showing Inness, Wyant, Winslow Homer, Hunt, and other American masters. Modern American Painting. We come now to the great and splendid representation of present-day painters.
There was no mistaking the effect produced on Count Ottaviano by this request. His lips moved, but he achieved only an ineffectual smile. "I suppose you know," Wyant went on, his anger rising at the sight of the other's discomfiture, "that you have taken an unwarrantable liberty.
"Bessy!" she cried, and sprang forward; but suddenly Wyant was before her, his hand on her arm; and as the dreadful group struggled by into the hall, he froze her to him with a whisper: "The spine "
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