She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. It’s Italian. So it would always be between herself and Manning. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains.
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