If he could keep it up—style and calibre of imagination—within a year the name of Taber would become widely known. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered. We can be friends again. The ragged edge. 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. This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood.
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