But in its stead—toward morning—there appeared another idea which appealed to him as sublime, appealed to the primitive conscience, to his artistic sense of the drama, to the poet and the novelist in him. I’ve never had these crying fits before. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. "A miserly old woman. “You’ve got to take the decent reasonable way. "They imagine their work is done. I'm an old hand at such things. All of a sudden, there was movement behind him. Her cargo is nearly shipped.
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