The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. No more scuffling. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool. Sheppard's ward, Sir. You square the G. Warren’s Profession furtively with Hetty Widgett from the gallery of a Stage Society performance one Monday afternoon.
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