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. “Beats me. " "What for? What do you want of them?" "Why, they are … yours. “You must do more than think of it,” he urged. ‘Not where we’re going.
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