Pino pino color painting

Pino pino color paintingPino Angelica paintingPablo Picasso Le Moulin de la Galette painting
about me with my stick till it flew from my hand. I had been fetched already some meters into the stream before I noticed that the arms about my middle were black ones; my struggles then disclosed my assailant to be wrapperless -- more I could not see -- and for an instant my heart thrilled: G. Herrold was it then, not drowned after all? Or was his ghost come back to wrestle as of old, or fetch me over to our hearts' desire, or -- fearful thought! -- drag me under with him?
This last seemed likeliest, once \ had proposed it; not only did it match the tales I'd read of spookly retribution, but in fact I fell or was flung now into the water, and found myself fighting the current as well as my attacker. I managed once to cry G. Herrold's name, and heard a grunting reply before my ears and mouth filled up with water. Then I had no time to care what had leaped me: I fought for air and footholds, struggling upstream against his clutch as he strove to pull me down, and always, despite