She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. It was difficult to get right. "May I beg to know whom I've the pleasure of adressing? Jackson, I conclude, is merely an assumed name. "No, Sir, it's quite possible—more than possible. "I couldn't go on!" "You'll need something more than courage now.
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