Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. The ragged edge. Given time and the right environment, and he would outgrow these defects. Throwing down the pencil, she snatched up a piece of India-rubber, and exclaiming,—"It isn't at all like him! it isn't half handsome enough!" was about to efface the sketch, when Thames darted into the room. These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again.
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