" Blueskin, meanwhile, having drained and replenished his glass, commenced chaunting a snatch of a ballad:— Once on a time, as I've heard tell. ‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk.
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