I thought you were cured.

I thought MY turn had come at last." Reginald met this in sullen silence.

Then Phoebe was sorry she had said it; for, after all, it wasn't the man's fault if an old sweetheart had run into the room, and given him a start.

So she made him some fresh tea, and pressed him kindly to try her home-made bread and butter.
My lord relaxed his frown and consented, and of course they talked diamond.
He told her, loftily, he must take a studio, and his sitters must come to him, and must no longer expect to be immortalized for one pound.

It must be two pounds for a bust, and three pounds for a kitcat.
"Nay, but, my dear," said Phoebe, "they will pay no more because you have a diamond." "Then they will have to go unpainted," said Mr.Falcon.
This was intended for a threat.