“You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The man had favoured him with a brief nod, but the girl had gone so far as to offer a tiny smile, and a look under her lashes with which not even Gerald, for all his scant interest in female society, could fail to be familiar. She lost it in the Mint. She became angry with herself.
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