” “That sounds more promising,” Lady Lescelles declared. 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. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Sepulchre's church, where, in compliance with an old custom, it halted. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome.
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