The fever came. “I wonder if there is!” said Capes, and paused, and then bent down over the boy who wore his hair like Russell. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. You lack only that mechanical knack of expression which is the least important part of an artist’s equipment, but which remains a tedious and absolute necessity. And then at the street corner she came face to face with Nigel Ennison.
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