All the village was assembled in the churchyard. The big gray spaces of London, the shop-lit, greasy, shining streets, had become very remote; the biological laboratory with its work and emotions, the meetings and discussions, the rides in hansoms with Ramage, were like things in a book read and closed. Sleep did not come easily, but eventually her mind stopped its chattering and she fell into a deep slumber. What was the fellow about? Was he being imposed upon? He watched as the man Valade turned back, spreading his hands in the French way. We can love on a snow cornice, we can love over a pail of whitewash. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas.
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