’ The girl shook her head violently, setting the feathers on her hat bobbing. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. " "I might have been able to do that if you hadn't told me … she cared. The road from Surbiton and Epsom ran under the arch, and, like a bright fungoid growth in the ditch, there was now appearing a sort of fourth estate of little redand-white rough-cast villas, with meretricious gables and very brassy windowblinds. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “What a beautiful mare’s nest!” she exclaimed. ‘The truth is, Everett,’ she said brightly, limping up to the general and tucking a hand in his arm, ‘that the girl is you all over again. But woe to those who disregard them! Of course, basically it is all wrong; and sometimes God must laugh at our ideas of rectitude. And for me there is only one treasure-house.
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