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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. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. Your mother, for instance, couldn’t.
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