She asked the inevitable question, the one she knew Michelle was waiting to field like a quarterback anticipating the pass. 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 didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. It is dull—deadly dull. “Reuben, come here. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her.
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