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She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. ” Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood. Is that it? I thought this very pretty. “So Brendon and I,” he said, “have been troubled with the same fears.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 18-09-2024 13:17:23
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