And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. He was conscious of a peculiar pleasure in sitting there and thinking of those few hours which already were becoming to assume a definite importance in his mind—a place curiously apart from those dry-as-dust images which had become the gods of his prosaic life. I had left Paris. ‘Don’t dare address me by such a title. "There, Sir," she added, unlocking the door, "you can go in. Giles's round-house on my own responsibility. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon.
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