I'm glad of it, I'm sure; for it's all owing to him his poor mother's here. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. 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 think he only wants to help you, miss,’ offered Jack.
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