" Mrs. ” She finished her breakfast and strolled out across the garden with the letters still in her hand. "Well, who'd have thought of Shotbolt beating us all in this way!" said Ireton. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. It presented itself in the likeness of a great, gray, dull world—a brutal, superstitious, confused, and wrong-headed world, that hurt people and limited people unaccountably.
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