“You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. She had asked to borrow his pencil out of dire necessity. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. "Red apples and snow!" he repeated. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. It is very possible that he will ask you to tell him before witnesses how you received your wound.
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