"It must be difficult to do justice in a photograph to such a picture."
She threw him back his commonplace:
"Oh, the gradations of tone often come out surprisingly well."
Inwardly she was saying, "How he must hate the sight of me."
Darrell looked from one to the other, dimly suspicious of their mutual consciousness, then rejected the suspicion as an absurd one.
"I will write to you about those sketches," he said, as the cab was announced.
Lucy and Phyllis were frisking about the studio, as young creatures will do in the spring, when Gertrude entered, weary and dispirited, from her expedition to The Sycamores.
The girls fell upon her at once for news.
She flung herself into the sitter's chair, which half revolved with the violence of the action.