“Well, my girl, I wish you had thought about all these things before these bothers began. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The warm September sun fell strongly on this part of the grounds, uninterrupted by trees, its light bouncing off the glass in the mansion’s walls. I tell you I’m Meysey Hill, the railway man. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. I wish very much that you had written before leaving Paris.
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