He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. 255 “You have a very talented son,” was her opening line. Stanley regarded him through his glasses with something approaching animosity. "Here we part,—perhaps for ever. That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. “What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia.
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