” She took the pocket-book and looked up at him with a little impulsive movement. Not that he deliberately courted danger; it was rather the searcher, seeking analysis, the why and wherefore of this or that invading emotion. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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