‘Then he went stark staring crazy, if you ask me. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. This—all this swamps them. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. .
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