Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. 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. You have been going out every morning, and coming home late—tired out—too tired to come down to dinner. Wait!" He released himself from his aunt's embrace, ran to the trunk and fetched the old coat. I’m not such a bad sort. .
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