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Updated: June 26, 2025
She only answered in a troubled sort of way that she thought every body, somehow or other, might in time find enough to do to be happy in doing and she was trying to put her meaning into more connected and intelligible form, when, greatly to her relief, Malcom entered the library.
Do you suppose Domenichino borrowed so much from his master?" "I fear so. Yet his picture is infinitely superior to this. And, look, here is Domenichino's Death of St. Peter, Martyr, which was borrowed largely from Titian's famous picture of the same subject, which has unfortunately been destroyed." "But don't you call that a species of plagiarism?" queried Malcom. "Undoubtedly it is.
Malcom was again with them, for the first time since they were at Fiesole, and this was enough to make the occasion a particularly joyous one.
Can you not share your realm with this homesick young man?" "But he has always had all for himself, mother. He does not know what it is to share." "Malcom! be yourself." The mother's eyes looked straight up into those of her tall boy, and her hand sought his with a firm, warm pressure that made him fling back his noble young head with an emphatic "I am ashamed of myself! Thank you, mother dear."
His whole story is like a romance; his success and fame boundless; his pictures scattered among all important galleries." "Has Venice a great many?" queried Malcom. "No, Venice possesses comparatively few; and, strangely enough, these are not most characteristic of the painter.
And he saw that the younger people of the household had caught the same spirit. Malcom, Margery, Barbara, and Bettina forgot themselves in each other, and were most generous in all their judgments. They esteemed people according to that which they were in themselves, not according to what they had, and shrank from nothing save meanness and selfishness.
The thought of Arden at once recurred to her, but looking out she saw old Malcom. Throwing a handkerchief over her head, she ran out to him, exclaiming: "How good you are, Mr. McTrump, to come and help me when I know you are so very busy at home!"
It is true, she looked upon him only in the light of her future husband, but that she did not shrink from any relationship with such a man shows how false and defective her education had been. Edith had employment for mind and hand, therefore she was happier and safer than either of her sisters. Malcom had her garden thoroughly plowed, and helped her plant it.
She was troubled; and since the air of Florence was beginning to take on the chill of winter to become too cold for such an invalid as Howard she ventured one day, when they happened to be alone together, to ask him if he would soon go farther south for the winter. "Malcom told me you had stopped for only a time here on your way to the south of Italy," she added.
For the past month or so Barbara has been most distraite; uncle has so evidently tried to be cheerful that the effort has been distressing; and you, little Lady Betty, have been racking your precious brains for a scheme to make things better." "And you, Malcom," she retorted, "have had so much sympathy with us all that wrinkles have really begun to appear on your manly brow."
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