"Of course," responded the widow, heaving a deep sigh. She answered him almost coldly. Thames took it, and beheld the portrait of a young man, apparently—judging from his attire—of high rank, whose proud and patrician features certainly presented a very striking resemblance to his own. Maggot held up a lantern, which she found in the shop. “We have a small studio,” she murmured, “in the Rue de St. A brief calm succeeded. You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Nobody knows what his real name is, but he's a Hollander. ‘If you had met her, you’d understand.
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