"Trenchard," he muttered; "Aliva Trenchard—they were right, then, as to the name. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. “I truly am a vampire, John. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so.
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