If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. You haven’t an idea what the sort of employment you could get there would be like, the sort of people you would be mixed up with. I don’t want to Bowdlerize Shakespeare. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. He had never wanted daughters. You ought to know that. " "Ay, but he will.
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