” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. ” The topic of his invalid wife bored him, and he turned at once to Ann Veronica. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. If not, I'll take a cheerful glass with you at the City of Oxford, on my way to Tyburn. ToC That night Jack walked to Paddington, and took up his quarters at a small tavern, called the Wheat-sheaf, near the green. "Stay, dear Thames!—stay!" cried the little girl.
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