“I am sure, Anna,” she said, “I do not see why we should conceal the truth from you. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. “As if it could possibly matter what such a person thinks of you. ” She spoke like a mistress addressing school-children. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. ” She became aware of her aunt, through the panes of the greenhouse, advancing with an air of serene unconsciousness from among the raspberry canes. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. Mr.
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