“I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Jack had no sooner taken his place in the cart, than he was followed by the ordinary, who seated himself beside him, and, opening the book of prayer, began to read aloud. It was something you were supposed to return, so she raced through all the television shows that she had watched over the years. He thought it best to let the matter drop.
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