“Oh, I don’t know. A girl usually loves the wrong man. To be poor is always bad enough, but to be in love, too, is really very dreadful. It usually finishes us–you know.”
“Are you in love?” he inquired, managing to repress his amusement.
“I could be. I know that much.” She went to the sink, turned on the water, washed her hands, and stood with dripping fingers looking about for a towel.
“I’ll get you one,” he said. When he brought it, she laughed and held out her hands to be dried.
“Do you think you are a Sultana?” he inquired, draping the towel across her outstretched arms and leaving it there.
“I thought perhaps you’d dry them,” she said sweetly.
“Not in the business,” he remarked; and lighted his pipe.
Her hands were her particular beauty, soft and snowy. She was much in demand among painters, and had posed many times for pictures of the Virgin, her hands usua
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