She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. 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. Luckily, she was bereft of consciousness, and was thus spared the additional misery of witnessing what afterwards befell him. “Exceptionally so.
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