He did not like it, he said, with a significant look, to be reminded of either his books or his dinners after he had done with them. All that she had ever loved were gone, except Sebastian. 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. She looked down tassels of his shiny shoes with a scowl. \"Well, I hear that you totally slammed the door in his face after he walked you home! Did you know he lives clear on the other side of town and walked three miles home after you slammed him?\" \"No. . Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold.
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