He breathed a little sigh of satisfaction. He had a narrow escape, however; for, passing within an inch of him, the bullet burried itself deeply in the wall. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. "Will that do?" he added, returning it. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you.
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