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canvas once more and apparently dismissing him utterly from her mind.
"Come on, Bistre," said Miles, glumly.
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Man and dog climbed the little slope
again and disappeared from sight
amongst the apple-trees. A moment
passed. The brook rippled and sang,
the bees droned from the clustered
blossoms, and overhead a lark, winging
across the blue, filled the world for
a space with limpid melody. Then,
slowly, the girl at the easel lifted her
head and, turning, looked up the slope.
