"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. Capes was irritatingly judicial in the matter, neither absurdly against, in which case one might have smashed him, or hopelessly undecided, but tepidly sceptical. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. Day by day she followed the spiritual and physical contest between this man and woman.
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