He looked distant, irritated. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. I will endeavour. ‘Eh bien, Eugénie. “What are you doing?” he asked. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. Spurling and Marvel rose too. " "When you please, Sir," said Thames, coldly. She came in now with an air of reserved solicitude.
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