" "Pray do so, Madam," retorted Mrs. ” “That doesn’t explain sunsets. Mr. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter.
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