When she finished her last cadence, Carolyn and Thomas begged her to play encores. I care for you. He's a cutie. He felt he had raised a storm which it would be very difficult, if not impossible, to allay. It'll be your turn to save mine next. 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. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless.
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