canvas painting

the
substance of the narrative itself: a wealthy Englishman's passion
for a French dancer, and her treachery to him, were every-day
matters enough, no doubt, in society; but there was something
decidedly strange in the paroxysm of emotion which had suddenly seized
him when he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of
his mood, and his newly revived pleasure in the old hall and its
environs. I meditated wonderingly on this incident; but gradually
quitting it, as I found it for the present inexplicable, I turned to
the consideration of my master's manner to myself. The confidence he
had thought fit to repose in me seemed a tribute to my discretion: I
regarded and accepted it as such. His deportment had now for some
weeks been more uniform towards me than at the first. I never seemed
in his way; he did not take fits of chilling hauteur: when he met me