The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She perceived that his countenance was only composed by a great effort, his features severely compressed. “I’d give anything,” he remarked, “to see our little Vee happily and comfortably married. "I'd lay down my life for yours. “Well?” “You and all the rest of them are always lamenting that I do not marry. But pathologically, he is still on the edge.
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