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"And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. It was hard to meet that gaze. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. Then she stepped back into the empty room and stood for a moment looking down upon the scattered fragments of her last canvas. "I understand," she said. " "Pray come to the point, Sir," said Mrs. Her father for fifteen years, and you now for the rest of her life! Tell her you're a thief.
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