She didn't know I would take it that way, else she would never have brought him to see me.

It was in her view a part of the conspiracy that to show him a kindness I asked him at last to sit to me.

I dare say moreover she was disgusted to hear that I had ended by attempting almost as many sketches of his beauty as I had attempted of hers.

What was the value of tributes to beauty by a hand that could so abase itself?
My relation to poor Dawling's want of modelling was simple enough.

I was really digging in that sandy desert for the buried treasure of his soul..