“It was,” she admitted. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. 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. How's that strike you?" "Very well, sir. Sheppard had been interred. ” Lucy said. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. For the rest, she derived her ideas of the married state from the observed behavior of married women, which impressed her in Morningside Park as being tied and dull and inelastic in comparison with the life of the young, and from a remarkably various reading among books. Sheppard.
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