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He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Advancing to the middle of the chamber, he halted, drew himself up, and fixed his dark, expressive eyes, on Thames Darrell. By this time, the procession had reached the west end of the wall of St. She remembered abruptly that she was really living upon his money. "Ruth?" Silence for a moment.
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