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. She paced restlessly to the door and back again, biting her tongue on the hot words begging to be uttered. But Gerald wouldn’t hear of it. So long as she could remember, her father had never permitted her to sit at the table unless she came fully dressed. He contrasted wonderfully with the empty showing-off of Teddy.
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