“An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. 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. Only that I was prevented by one of those soldiers that caught me in the big house. ‘Would that your mistress were as trusting.
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