“I thought every one had heard,” said Miss Klegg. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ’ ‘Your groom? What for?’ ‘Get him to wait outside. He turned his back on that temptation. He's rewriting Poe and De Maupassant; and that stuff was good only when Poe and De Maupassant wrote it. There, after protestations of friendliness and helpfulness that were almost ardent, he mounted a little clumsily and rode off at an amiable pace, looking his best, making a leg with his riding gaiters, smiling and saluting, while Ann Veronica turned northward and so came to Micklechesil. Sir John felt and looked several years younger. Cursed him for his devotion that had made him come back for her, only to get himself shot by the fiendish Gosse. But I'll tell you about him some other time. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. . He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. "I've done nothing to offend you," persisted Jack.
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