II. It is you who took my name, not I yours. Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. 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. “Why, it’s David!” he exclaimed. Jonathan stepped behind a curtain. . . Mrs.
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