He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. His countenance was almost as white and rigid as that of the corpse by his side. You look like a movie star. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move.
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