I decline to waste a single second even in considering the ugly ones. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. Gerald smiled and crooked his elbow. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her.
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