I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. It needs cultivating, I think. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. Oh, I grew fond of you as the years went by. "What's that you're saying about Jack Sheppard?" she cried. There was the motor accident, too. She was caught by an uncle, whose opinion she valued, making faces at Roddy because he had exulted at this. If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue. “Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted.
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