“You must come and see me some afternoon,” she said to him. But he would make it a point not to speak again to the girl. The cart, meantime, had approached the fatal tree. Her voice shook, her eyes were very soft and melting. 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. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls.
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