For weeks, nothing had made such an impression on her.
She rose to receive the great painter, who was standing near the table in the middle of the room, looking at her in surprise and real anxiety, for she was little more than a shadow of the girl he had painted six weeks or two months earlier.

He himself had brought in a good-sized picture, wrapped in new brown paper; it stood beside him on the floor, reaching as high as his waist, and his left hand rested on the upper edge.

He held out the other to Angela, who took it apathetically.
'You have been very ill,' he said in a tone of concern.
'No,' she answered.

'I am only a little tired.

Will you not sit down ?' She sank into her seat again, and one thin hand lay on the cushioned arm of the chair.