Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. "The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. And she felt that if she went home it was imperative to pay. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush. He smothered a laugh.
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