If Ray left the house, it would be easy. "My portrait!" echoed Jack. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. ‘What do you do here?’ demanded the young lady, moving to meet him. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. It had been Ann Veronica’s lot as the youngest child to live in a home that became less animated and various as she grew up. Even if he were an old friend, you couldn't afford to do it.
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