“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. “I suppose you could at least tune it for us if you know how to play. He saw the girl, and sprang up in bed. Her father was holding her waist, smiling. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. "I want to speak to Edgeworth Bess myself. You have grown into my life. Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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