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canvas once more and apparently dismissing him utterly from her mind.

"Come on, Bistre," said Miles, glumly.


Man and dog climbed the little slope again and disappeared from sight amongst the apple-trees. A moment passed. The brook rippled and sang, the bees droned from the clustered blossoms, and overhead a lark, winging across the blue, filled the world for a space with limpid melody. Then, slowly, the girl at the easel lifted her head and, turning, looked up the slope.

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