Mr. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “No doubt about that,” Meddoes continued. The boy was coming around. Anna’s face however was wholly impassive. "How goes it?" he began, heartily. That would not help her. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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