" "Whom do you mean?" demanded Jackson. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. “Of course I will,” he answered. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. 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.
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