He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. He was standing by, rating her ladyship,—who can scarcely stir from the sofa,—while I was packing up her jewels in the case, and I observed that she tried to hide a small casket from him. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming. “I would have given up anything to see you your old self again—as you are this evening. "Let us sit here," she said, indicating the white sand bordering the lagoon; "and in a minute or two you will see something quite wonderful.
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