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. " The knight was indeed greatly changed. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her. " "Except me, dear," insinuated Edgeworth Bess.
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