She loved him. 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. Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. ” She propped herself up on the massive oaken post of the bed, feeling the paralysis tingle her legs as it left them ever so slowly. "Insult you! not I;" returned Figg. He was human. He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. His blood would be sweet with it.
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