If, when he returned, he blew out the light, she would go to bed; but if the light burned on for any length of time, she would go silently to the study curtain to learn if his agony was still upon him. This was enough for the poor widow. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. The touch of her hands was pleasurable. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously. It was as if he could smell it on her. "Impossible!" echoed Wild, with a fearful imprecation. 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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