The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. 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. . I said to myself, ‘this will come.
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