Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. "Very well," said Rachel, with a toss of her pretty head, "very well. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. She felt like a dried-up old woman. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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