But they did not know how good she was, how perfect she was. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. ” She nodded. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think.
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