He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise. 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. It was a simple wish. The noise was raucous. “No, the only person I told before tonight was my mother and father.
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