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Alienis studiis delectatus contempsit suum. His destiny was to be a bad painter, so he wanted to be an execrable poet. All this morning he had been doggreling, when he ought to have been daubing; and now he will have to sup off a colored print, if he sups at all. Christie read, blushed, and put the verses in her bosom. "Come awa, Custy," said Jean.
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