She made them in the garden, coming in or going out; or outside, and, now and then, inside his study, like a child who comes and shows you a sore finger.

Thus, quite suddenly: "I've four shillings left over this week, Mr.Dallison," or, "Old Mr.
Creed's gone to the hospital to-day, Mr.Dallison." Her face soon became less bloodless than on that first evening, but it was still pale, inclined to colour in wrong places on cold days, with little blue veins about the temples and shadows under the eyes.

The lips were still always a trifle parted, and she still seemed to be looking out for what was coming, like a little Madonna, or Venus, in a Botticelli picture.

This look of hers, coupled with the matter-of-factness of her speech, gave its flavour to her personality....
On Christmas Day the picture was on view to Mr.Purcey, who had chanced to "give his car a run," and to other connoisseurs.

Bianca had invited her model to be present at this function, intending to get her work.
But, slipping at once into a corner, the girl had stood as far as possible behind a canvas.