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seated himself on the opposite bench. The landscape painter was stout, squat, broad of shoulder, and deep of chest, with a large square face almost hidden by a tangle of brown whiskers. His eyes were small and bright and of a faded blue shade. He looked like a successful commission merchant. His hands were a never-ceasing wonder to Miles. They were broad and pudgy, short of finger and incompetent-looking. And yet they performed wonders with the paint-brush and worked miracles with the strings of a guitar. Throwing one huge leg over the other and leaning his head against the trellis at his back, he began to play softly. At moments the volumes of smoke bursting from under his thick moustache hid his face from view. He had a deep voice, which, gruff and almost
 * lowed by the faithful Bistre, and