And I have seen work by his pupils myself that struck me as being—well, next door to shameful. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground. The lace was family lace, easily recognizable. It is like some accident. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared.
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