"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. “I wish he had,” she said. Russell burned like a beacon, but Capes illuminated by darting flashes and threw light, even if it was but momentary light, into a hundred corners that Russell left steadfastly in the shade. She wished she had not stood up. ’ Captain Roding looked frowningly from one to the other. Stanley, produced a portrait from its hiding-place in the jewel-drawer under the mirror.
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