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Anna Prestnoff was lying stretched upon a divan, her elbow upon a cushion, her head resting upon her hand, studying with intense concentration mingled with a certain amount of disapprobation, a large canvas which stood upon her easel a dozen yards away. The stumps of two extinct cigarettes were in the ash-tray by her side. She lit a third.
"To think that that fool could see quite clearly what he wants, that he could explain it perfectly, and yet I cannot produce it," she muttered.