Kneebone nodded. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. He was so depressed and disheartened that he did not then believe he would ever write again. ‘It does not seem to me that you can be an emissary for that pig.
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