“But, my dear!” said Ann Veronica’s aunt. He had nothing more to say either to her or to Spurlock. Grudgingly he admired her. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. He wished he had the time to solve this riddle, for it was a riddle, and four-square besides. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart.
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