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And then she fell into a musing about Capes. Tears flowed in rivulets down 121 her cheeks and she began to cry. ’ She eyed him, all her uncertainty surfacing. “Please hurry. Let me take the satchel, sir. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese.
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