Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. ‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. "Your uncle must protect you. ” “Did you say,” Sir John asked, “that the man’s name was Hill?” “Yes,” she answered. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. It wasn’t. You have the gift of words, but you haven't started to create yet. Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. Then she slowly straightened, releasing him. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from.
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