She pulled her chair with a mild creak and marched towards the stair. Let me have more light, that I may behold him. Mind, I, Baptist Kettleby, say so. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. That's the only fault I know of.
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