He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. “Mr. It's always hard work for a rich man's son to stand alone. I swore I would bring your husband to the gallows,—would plunge you in such want, such distress, that you should have no alternative but the last frightful resource of misery,—and I also swore, that if you had a son he should share the same fate as his father. “So your father brought you here to live in the States?” John asked.
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