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The note-passer lagged behind with her. Too much, perhaps. "You are a paragon of prudence and discretion," rejoined the woollen-draper, drawing his chair closer to hers. "I'd rather have given a thousand pounds than this had happened. Her body was perpetually tanned, despite the approach of winter. The ring's yours, and you're mine. One OUGHT to want to please her. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. To-morrow I am going to Paris.
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