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"To that corpulent figgur," sez I, "in military fixins." "That, sair," sez he, with severity, "is a portrait of his Majusty the King of Denmark, lately disEased." "A portraickt of his cloze, you mean," sez I. "Is that sprorling pictur a work of art? With that I scowled at the Creteck, and left him looking considerable smawl pertaters.
That's the great art critic, who lays down the lor for Bristol and ets vicinity." So I pushed up cloas, and sed I to the creteck, "Wall, Mister, what dew think of that air piece of canvas staining?" At first he Ide me loftily, and made no reply. "Not yet have I mastered the pictur. I'm a studyin of the onperfectly-seen vizionoimies behind. Them guards is a phernomenon.
The soul of the painter has projected itself thrugh the august glooms." "Don't see it," sez I. "Them shadders want glazin and the middletints is no whur. The creteck regarded me With Contemptoous indignashun. "Hullo!" sed I next, "whose been and stolen a signboard, and stuck it up in this refined society?" "To what do you defer?" sez he, still very fridgid.
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