He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Someone bounded up the stairs, which groaned from the strain, unmistakably Mike. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws.
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