“It’s not. "I tell you what, Mr. I didn’t understand before that letter. ” “And what about this man—Mr. “Time for my Patience,” she said. You have never known what it is to want food, raiment, shelter. Good night!" She pressed his hand and went out. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own.
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