“Yes, aren’t they?” said Ann Veronica, after a thoughtful pause. “And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. But let that verse tell my secret. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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