He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “It is not possible,” he exclaimed. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. You cannot—shall not retreat. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall.
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