For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister’s face. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. Ah, no, I have it wrong. And there was that dress of hers! She must be warned that she had been imposed upon. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is.
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