Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. The attempt was unsuccessful. Ruth returned to the table. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. Just as they reached the eastern outlet of the churchyard— where the tall elms cast a pleasant shade over the rustic graves—a momentary stoppage took place. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. Good-bye aunt. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. He went to the door. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence.
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