“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Ill-drawn, without method or sense of proportion, you have put wonderful things on to canvas, have drawn them out of yourself, notwithstanding your mechanical inefficiency. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. "Did you write it?" "No. ” He smiled at her. "How is Mr.
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