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“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment. You've caught the colour and the life. Maggot's offer may appear, the young man thought fit to decline it, and, after a few words of well-merited compliment on her extraordinary prowess, and renewed thanks to Mr.
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