You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Still, it was true about men. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. .
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