She crooked her finger. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. Lonesomeness isn't my worry. Wood's charms equalled your description. Have I your final answer?" "You have, Sir Rowland," she answered, in a feeble tone, but firmly. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree.
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