She refrained. The family always managed to make it home for supper, even though it was a dying custom. But still you have told me of my real mother when I thought it was Suzanne Valade. 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.
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