Then she would be dead, and that was no use. . 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. She, having all the confidence in the world, ripped off an end and drew out the contents—a letter and a check. Mrs. "Mr. "God in Heaven bless you, unhappy boy!" cried. To make sure work of it, I'll superintend the job myself.
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