It has. She could not part with dignity. The chapel was crowded to excess. 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. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words. "He called me a wanton, Hoddy. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour.
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