He squatted and threw his arm around the backs of her knees. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. She enjoyed preparing the evening meals, the smells of potatoes roasting in the oven, the stink of onions in the pan, the crackle of chicken frying. It was Jack, wasn’t it?’ ‘Aye, s-sir.
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