"Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. She was leaning over him and he smelled her like he had never smelled anyone before. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. ’ ‘She?’ scoffed Martha. “Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. I told them lies.
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