” Lucy blinked from the winter sunlight and reached behind herself to yank at her hood. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. ‘And, if this was not enough,’ went on the lady furiously, ‘you dare to say I am French. You are an artist by the Divine right of birth, but whatever form of expression may come to you at some time it will not be painting.
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