But somehow he could not bring any of these affairs to an orderly end. S. . The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. She was nearly dead. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence.
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