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Gabriel-Germain Joncherie. Hans Jordaens I. Sir Godfrey Kneller.


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Christoph Jacobsz van der Lamen. Sir Thomas Lawrence. Johannes Leemans. Jacob Levecq. Bernardo German Llorente. Jules-Cesar Denis van Loo. Carle van Loo. Giovanni Losardi Jan Lossaert. Carstiaan Luyckx. Nicolaes Maes. Jan Martszen II. Pascuale Mattej. Adam Frans van der Meulen. Hendrick van Minderhout. Federico Moja. Federico moja. Jean-Baptiste Monnoyer. Paulus Moreelse. Matthys Naiveu. Pieter Nason.

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Caspar Netscher. Constantijn Netscher. Richard van Orley. Adriaen Jansz Van Ostade. Isaak Ouwater. Christoffel Pierson. Jean Pillement. Joseph Plepp. Julius Porcellis. Martin Ferdinand Quadal. Niels Peter Rasmussen. Giuseppe Recco. Domenico Remps. Hendrick Rietschoof.

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George Romney. Henriette Ronner-Knip. Russian School circa BArtolomaus Sarburgh. Ary Scheffer. Aert Schouman. Cornelis Schut. Enoch Seeman. Dominic Serres. Joshua Shaw. Giovanni Signorini. The boy pressed his forehead against the back of her chair. And how she [19] raised her lids and showed the strong light of her starry eyes, and dropped her chin a little in that inclination of the head, and wore a smile that was unexpected in its blending of desire and sweetness and cunning and childlikeness!

Susan said that she had left it on the table. She looked there in vain.


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She fluttered hither and thither like a huge black butterfly: she opened and closed drawers, shook her head, thoughtfully pressed her hand against her forehead, and finally found the snood under the piano lid next to a roll of bank notes. But we have to hunt a long time. I was in Spain a long time. I was born in Germany and lived there till I was twelve. The lovelorn boy had left.

Mollusca - Wikipedia

Eva seemed to have forgotten him, and there was no shadow upon the brunette pallor of her face. She sat down again, and after a brief exchange of questions she told him of an experience that she had had. The reason for her telling the story seemed to inhere in thoughts which she did not express. Her glance rested calmly in the illimitable.

Her eyes knew no walls in their vision; no one could assert that she looked at him.

She merely gazed. Susan Rappard sat by the tile-oven, resting her chin upon her arm, while her fingers, gliding past the furrowed cheeks, clung amid her greyish hair. He was not over twenty-five, vigorous, a typical Frenchman of the South, though rather taciturn.

He loved the land and knew the old castles. Once he spoke to her of a tower that stood on a cliff, a mile from the city; he described the view from the top of the tower in words that made Eva long to enjoy it. He offered to be her guide, and they agreed on the hour and the day. The tower had an iron gate which was kept locked, and the key was in the keeping of a certain vintner. It was late afternoon when they set out, but on the unshaded road it was still hot. They meant to be back before night fall, and so they walked quickly; but when they reached the tower the sun had already disappeared behind the hills.

Brother Leotade opened the iron gate and they saw a narrow spiral staircase of stone. They climbed a few stairs. Then the monk turned suddenly, locked the door from within, and slipped the key into the pocket of his cowl. Eva asked his reason. He replied that it was safer so.

She let him precede her, but on a landing he turned and grasped her. She was silent, although she felt the pressure of his fingers. Still silent, she glided from his grasp, and ran up as swiftly as she could. She heard no steps behind her in the darkness, and the stairs seemed endless. Still she climbed until her breath gave out, and she panted for the light. Suddenly the greenish bell of the sky gleamed into the shaft; and as she mounted, the circle of her vision widened to the scarlet of the West, and when she stood on the last step and on the platform, having emerged from the mustiness of the old walls into the balsamic coolness and the multiform and tinted beauty of earth and air, the danger seemed wholly past.

She waited and watched the dark hole from which she had come. The monk did not appear. His treacherous concealment strained her nerves to the uttermost.

Getting My Snails! All Things Snails

The brief twilight [21] faded; evening turned into night; there was no sound, no tread. Not until late did it occur to her that she could call for help. She cried out into the land, but she saw that it was a desolate region in which no one dwelled. And when her feeble cry had died away, the shape of Brother Leotade appeared at the head of the stairs.

The expression on his face filled her now with an even greater horror.