"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. He returned to the car, Cokes in hand. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. If I do not look after her, she has no one. "She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. He was always deceived by these rustlings which promised wind and seldom fulfilled that promise.
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