“Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. 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. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. I worshipped her and subdued myself.
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