Still, in spite of her glances and gestures, Mr. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. 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. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. Most of my successes in life have been made with a sort of reckless vigor.
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