But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. 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. “You’ve got my view,” he said, after a pensive second. “It’s—private. Instead, he could not get beyond these minor details—why she wore the dress, whence she had come, and whither she was bound.
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