To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. “I have stood it for a month, Anna,” he exclaimed. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. No one will ever love you as I love you now. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive.
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