“The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. On the way he confessed. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Two or three podgy-looking old men with wives to match, half-a-dozen overdressed girls, and a couple of underdressed American ones, who still wore the clothes in which they had been tramping half over London since breakfast time. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. I shall still wear your favor—even if it is a stolen and forbidden favor—in my casque. She thought of her aunt and that purse that was dropped on the table, and of many troublesome and ill-requited kindnesses; she thought of the help of the Widgetts, of Teddy’s admiration; she thought, with a new-born charity, of her father, of Manning’s conscientious unselfishness, of Miss Miniver’s devotion. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes.
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