She was supposed to be reading at home, and after breakfast she strolled into the vegetable garden, and having taken up a position upon the staging of a disused greenhouse that had the double advantage of being hidden from the windows of the house and secure from the sudden appearance of any one, she resumed the reading of Mr. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr. . After the usual laconic greetings, he drew him on one side. “The plain common-sense of the case,” he said, “is that we can’t possibly be lovers in the ordinary sense. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. Imbecile. “I feel quite sure that Mrs. She recalled him. I saw him ride away with that other fellow. But here the resemblance stopped.
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