"Leave me alone," she said, not unkindly; and then to me,
trying to smile: "What must you think of me?"
Stroeve, looking at her with perplexity, hesitated.
His forehead was all puckered, and his red mouth set in a pout.
He reminded me oddly of an agitated guinea-pig.
"Then it's No, darling?" he said at last.
She gave a gesture of lassitude. She was exhausted.
"The studio is yours. Everything belongs to you. If you want
to bring him here, how can I prevent you?"
A sudden smile flashed across his round face.
"Then you consent? I knew you would. Oh, my precious."
Suddenly she pulled herself together. She looked at him with
haggard eyes. She clasped her hands over her heart as though
its beating were intolerable.
"Oh, Dirk, I've never since we met asked you to do anything for me."
"You know there's nothing in the world that I wouldn't do for
you."
"I beg you not to let Strickland come here. Anyone else you like.
Bring a thief, a drunkard, any outcast off the streets,
and I promise you I'll do everything I can for them gladly.
But I beseech you not to bring Strickland here.
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