" "The very face," exclaimed Gay, advancing to look at it;—"with all the escapes written in it. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. 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. There’s sure to be a place somewhere. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. “I will come—with pleasure,” she said, “if you will promise to treat me as a new acquaintance—not to refer to—Paris—at all. " The tone was neutral. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. . “I’ll come to the station,” said Ann Veronica. Suddenly the door of the flat opened and closed. .
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