It was not until the morning of the fifth day that the constant vigil was broken. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. It was clear she wanted to get away from home, that she was impatient to get away from home. "Coward!" cried Kneebone.
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