"My demeanour ought to convince you that I came with no hostile intention. I did not reckon upon—him. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. "Your sympathy is being wasted. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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