‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Gerald in a low tone. Wood, with a look meant to reduce her supposed rival to the dust. 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. But after the first shock came a warm glow of relief. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend.
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