Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. You are afraid—that here in London—I shall not be a success. I am too weak to aid you. I am up to the ears in it all— every moment I can spare. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out. \"Some of them don't smell so good. ’ There was a kind of aching hunger in Gerald’s gaze. He stopped abruptly. Also she had tried him as a dragoman and as a gendarme, which seemed the most suitable of all to his severely handsome, immobile profile. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree.
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