Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. "How do you know that?" rejoined Jack. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted.
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