What brings you here?” “I’m here to see my uncle. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday. Wood, I forget nothing. Why should you want to shield him?" "I really don't know. "Your sister is dead," said he, in a deep whisper. 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.
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