‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. “I should kill you. For a long time he stared at the empty doorway. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness.
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