“Odd!” he remarked, rather surprisingly, after a little interval. The shock and distress were genuine. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. Finding it impossible to descend on any side, without incurring serious risk, Jack resolved to return for his blanket, by the help of which he felt certain of accomplishing a safe landing on the roof of the house in Giltspur Street. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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