She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. "Why, first," rejoined Austin, "there's Sir James Thornhill, historical painter to his Majesty, and the greatest artist of the day. Ann Veronica pushed aside a tea-cup and the vestiges of her strawberries and cream, and put her elbows before her on the table.
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