If you met her you would, I am certain, think her as fine as I do. 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. ” She said with love for them. "Where is it?" "Are you the mother of this child?" inquired the person who had first spoken, addressing Mrs. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. Now, he had achieved them, and felt assured of success. ” He said to her. “Well?” she said.
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