Melusine sighed with frustration. Kneebone, who began to feel sleepy, wound it up, and snuffed the candles. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. “Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. You don’t know what you ask nor what you say. The thing is to get the patient on his feet. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. Would you mind drawing them back?” Ennison sprang up, but he never reached the curtains. ’ To his intense satisfaction, mademoiselle burst into laughter.
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