Then, as she was in the act of turning reluctantly away, she noticed a thin crack between the door and the frame. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Close upon this came another thought. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. "Keep off, you accursed jade!" roared Jonathan, "—off, I say, or—" And he struck her a violent blow with his clenched hand.
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