He seemed wholly insensible to the rain, though it presently descended in torrents, and continued his search as ardently as before. Sometimes her straying mind would become astonishingly active—embroidering bright and decorative things that she could say to Capes; sometimes it passed into a state of passive acquiescence, into a radiant, formless, golden joy. “Will you tell me what all this is about?” said Capes. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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