‘That’s why I never told Joan Ibstock that you were still with me when I wrote. By the time she arrived at the Beck’s doorstep, the morning was risen. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. I’ll be waiting for you outside. Will I meet you there?’ ‘Yes, yes, I shall await you. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights.
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