A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She felt her forehead repeatedly break out in a light sweat. “I won’t pretend,” he said, “that this is an accident. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him.
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