‘There is no one who could have told him this. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. “I really owe him something of an apology. She is no longer mine; she is yours. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. ” She drove off in a little fiacre, nodding and smiling at Sir John, who remained upon the Avenue. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend.
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