‘Monstrously unfair of you, Hilary. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. "Do you think I'm afeard of a beggarly thief-taker and his myrmidons? Not I. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. "There's an old proverb," continued Wood, rising and walking towards the fire, "which says,—'Put another man's child in your bosom, and he'll creep out at your elbow.
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