“I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday. And you think I would marry you?’ ‘Why not? I am unworthy, eh? Because I am a servant. “She told you that?” “Yes. Mr. She found herself mildly entertained by staring at the houses through the rain as she walked home, all cast in a gray blurry film noir gauze of rain. . ’ He called through the library door. \" She sat down on a nearby bench.
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