"
"What an angel you must be to have suffered so much and complained so
little!" he exclaimed with fervour, kissing her hand.
Her eyes, which reminded him of dying violets, drooped over him above
the peacock feathers she waved gently before her.
"Poor Kesiah, it is hard on her, too," she observed, "and I sometimes
think she is unjust enough to blame me in her heart."
"But she doesn't feel things as you do, one can tell that to look at
her."
"She isn't so sensitive and silly, you dear boy, but my poor nerves are
responsible for that, you must remember. If Kesiah had been a man she
would have been an artist, and it was really a pity that she happened to
be born a woman. When she was young she had a perfect mania for drawing,
and it used to distress mother so much. A famous portrait painter--I
can't recall his name though I am sure it began with S--saw one of her
sketches by accident and insisted that we ought to send her to Paris to
study. Kesiah was wild to go at the time, but of course it was out of
the question that a Virginia lady should go off by herself and paint
perfectly nude people in a foreign city.
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