He had now sketched in more
distinctly the figure of the man, changed it purposely to look more like
Telford. She saw her own face first. It shone out of the canvas. She gave
a gasp of pain and admiration. Then she caught sight of Telford's figure,
with the face blurred and indistinct.
"Oh!" she said with a shudder. That--that is like him. How could you
know?"
"If that is the man," he said, "I saw him this morning. Is his name Mark
Telford?"
"Yes," she said, and sank into a chair. Presently she sprang to her feet,
caught up a brush and put it into his hand. "Paint in his face. Quick!
Paint in his face. Put all his wickedness there."
Hagar came close to her. "You hate him?" he said, and took the brush.
She did not answer by word, but shook her head wearily, as to some one far
off, expressing neither yes nor no.
"Why?" he said quietly--all their words had been in low tones, that they
might not be heard--"why, do you wear that ring, then?"
She looked at her hand with a bitter, pitiful smile. "I wear it in memory
of that girl who died very young"--she pointed to the picture--"and to
remind me not to care for anything too much lest it should prove to be a
lie." She nodded softly to the picture. "He and she are both dead; other
people wear their faces now.
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