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” Mr. 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 began to rain, a cold sweat of precipitation that was more sickly than refreshing. It was surely odd that her thought should pick up that picture and recast it so vividly. ‘I have said that I will tell you nothing of this soi-disant Valade.
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