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Updated: July 17, 2025
Miss Price, for it was she, carried a painting-box, and under one arm a stretcher that gave her infinite trouble whenever the wind caught it. As she passed, the Painter half started up to join her, but she gave him such a cold nod that his intention was nipped in the bud.
A tourist, no doubt; she could not place him as an inhabitant. "I know!" she said smiling. "You saw the otter hounds. They passed me an hour ago. Have they caught him?" "Who? the otter? Lord, no! He got right away from them up a tributary stream." "Good!" said Lydia, as she shut her painting-box. The young man hesitated.
Blyth now come and go, flutter, run, and blunder in a mighty hurry about his studio, in search of missing colors which ought to be in his painting-box, but which are not to be found there. While he is still hunting through the room, his legs come into collision with a large drawing-board on which there is a blank sheet of paper stretched. This board seems to remind Mr.
Then she looked down on his palette, and observing that some colors were still missing from it, began to search for them directly in the painting-box. She found them in a moment, and appealed to Mr. Blyth with an arch look of inquiry and triumph. He nodded, smiled, and held out his palette for her to put the colors on it herself.
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