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Updated: June 20, 2025
But for the most part, her own wore the expression Lavendie had translated to his canvas the look of one ever waiting for the extreme moments of life, for those few and fleeting poignancies which existence holds for the human heart. A look neither hungry nor dissatisfied, but dreamy and expectant, which might blaze into warmth and depth at any moment, and then go back to its dream.
"It is just nine o'clock; we must order quickly." "May I have one of those green things?" "Deux cremes de menthe," said Lavendie to the waiter. Noel was too absorbed to see the queer, bitter little smile hovering about his face.
What would you say to imprisonment by explosion day and night; never a minute free. Bom! Bom! Bom! Ah! les tranchees! It's not so free as all that, there." "Every one has his own prison," said Lavendie bitterly. "Mademoiselle even, has her prison and little Chica, and her doll. Every one has his prison, Barra. Monsieur Barra is also a painter, mademoiselle."
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