She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. " "For mercy's sake go up stairs," implored Sheppard. 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. Nothing but the constraint of social usage now linked him to her. " So there was always plenty of mail.
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