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Updated: May 31, 2025
Then Torpenhow, insinuatingly 'Dick, is it a woman?
In five minutes the picture was a formless, scarred muddle of colours. She threw the paint-stained duster into the studio stove, stuck out her tongue at the sleeper, and whispered, 'Bilked! as she turned to run down the staircase. She would never see Torpenhow any more, but she had at least done harm to the man who had come between her and her desire and who used to make fun of her.
Cashing the check was the very cream of the jest to Bessie. Then the little privateer sailed across the Thames, to be swallowed up in the gray wilderness of South-the-Water. Dick slept till late in the evening, when Torpenhow dragged him off to bed. His eyes were as bright as his voice was hoarse. 'Let's have another look at the picture, he said, insistently as a child.
'I've done it! Come in! Isn't she a beauty? Isn't she a darling? I've been down to hell to get her; but isn't she worth it? Torpenhow looked at the head of a woman who laughed, a full-lipped, hollow-eyed woman who laughed from out of the canvas as Dick had intended she would. 'Who taught you how to do it? said Torpenhow. 'The touch and notion have nothing to do with your regular work.
Write a note to your office, you say you're the head of it, and order them to give Torpenhow my sketches, every one of them. Wait a minute: your hand's shaking. Now! He thrust a pocket-book before him. The note was written.
The worst is that we don't know when it will happen, and I believe the uncertainty and the waiting have sent Dick to the whiskey more than anything else. 'How the Arab who cut his head open would grin if he knew! 'He's at perfect liberty to grin if he can. He's dead. That's poor consolation now. In the afternoon of the third day Torpenhow heard Dick calling for him. 'All finished! he shouted.
He sat quietly waiting under strained nerves for the darkness to lift. It did not lift that day, nor the next. Dick adventured on a voyage round the walls. He hit his shins against the stove, and this suggested to him that it would be better to crawl on all fours, one hand in front of him. Torpenhow found him on the floor. 'I'm trying to get the geography of my new possessions, said he.
I lock my door, and they can only call me names through the keyhole, and I sit inside, just like a lady, mending socks. Mr. Torpenhow wears his socks out both ends at once. 'Three quid a week from me, and the delights of my society. No socks mended. Nothing from Torp except a nod on the landing now and again, and all his socks mended.
'It's picturesque enough and it's sketchy, said he; 'but as a serious consideration of affairs in Eastern Europe, it's not worth much. 'It's off my hands at any rate.... Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine slips altogether, aren't there? That should make between eleven and twelve pages of valuable misinformation. Heigho! Torpenhow shuffled the writing together and hummed
Therefore she justified her conduct to herself with great success, till Torpenhow came up to her on the steamer and without preface began to tell the story of Dick's blindness, suppressing a few details, but dwelling at length on the miseries of delirium. He stopped before he reached the end, as though he had lost interest in the subject, and went forward to smoke.
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