To get behind that impenetrable curtain, to learn why she hated her island. “I wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. “Yes,” she said at last, “it is firm and affectionate.
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