"Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. Loved his memory still, for all he knew. It was always jabbing him with white-hot barbs, waking or sleeping. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall.
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