The particulars of her engagement were very clear in her memory. Upon my word—you are Miss Pellissier, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” she admitted. 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. The door was too strong, and too well secured, to break open,—the walls too thick: but the ceiling,—if he could reach it—there, he doubted not, he could make an outlet. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. Go easy. Side by side with the cheese (its never-failing accompaniment, in all seasons, at the carpenter's board) came a tankard of swig, and a toast. His friendship seemed a thing worth having.
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