He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. ’ I wanted, as I have never wanted before, to take you up, to make you mine, to carry you off and set you apart from all the strain and turmoil of life. , and get some other man to live on as soon as possible. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet.
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