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"I expect it is," says I, squintin' at it professional, "but but just what is it supposed lo be?" And I turns inquirin' to F. Hallam. "Why," says he, "it is a study of afternoon light on a group of willows. We are not Futurists, you see; Revertists, rather. Our methods at least mine are frankly after the Barbizon school." "Yeauh!" says I, noddin' wise.
And his little tales about the parties he'd been to on the night before was usually interestin'. Which was bad for the general morale, as you can guess. Also his light and frivolous way of chuckin' zippy lady stenogs under the chin and callin' 'em "Dearie" didn't help his standin' any. Yeauh! He was some boy, Amby, while he lasted.
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