“I can’t. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. ‘You’re the most troublesome wretch I’ve ever encountered,’ he told her bitterly. Here one might live the life of golden days. The door to the room in question was closed. ‘You the fellow Gerald spoke to?’ Kimble flushed beetroot, and Melusine had a flash of insight.
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