“Is that you, Nigel?” she asked. Brendon suggests supper at the Carlton. His blood would be sweet with it. I'd go for it. ‘Come,’ she called. He was an officer, and a person of very great sense, and altogether a desirable parti. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. She simply refuses to see or hear from me again. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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