“Well,” she said, “good-night, father. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “Well?” she said.
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