He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. I have made up my mind to insist upon moving from here into Park Lane, or one of the Squares. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd.
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