Perhaps I ate something spoiled for breakfast. Wood's daughter,—to whom, I've heard tell, he was attached years ago,—was brought up, his courage forsook him altogether, and he trembled, and could scarcely stand. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. She hoped that he would at long last remember his young male pride.
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