F. ” Michelle squinted conspiratorially. Wood became sensible that he was not alone. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. .
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