"I'll make sure work this time," he added, about to repeat the blow. I did not reckon upon—him. ‘Never. 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. Her faithful servant struggled, with her assistance, to rise. Then she came a few steps to meet him. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. He would pull this young fellow back; but later he knew that he would have to fight the boy's lack of will to live. From the first I could see that neither believed my story.
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