The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Who is the other?” “What other?” Her voice seemed to come from a long way off. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. ” “I am afraid,” she said, preceding him down the narrow stairs, “that I am going to be too busy to have much time for gadding about. I wonder what it was. He haunted a state between hectic dreaming and mild delirium, and she found herself talking aloud to him.
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