“It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. You, Jack Sheppard, have nothing to fear, as you've become evidence against your accomplice. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush.
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