To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. . Leonardo was to me nothing at all. She reads novels—and history—and all sorts of things. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. "And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?" cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. She didn’t choose her man.
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