She interrupted. He is all kindness, and will overlook them for your poor father's sake —for mine. She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. 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. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. Go for it. Her back arched slightly in response. “His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought.
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