She took up a book and threw it down again. 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. The major hailed him with a show of relief. This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. Her aunt did not object to capital punishment or war, or the industrial system or casual wards, or flogging of criminals or the Congo Free State, because none of these things really got hold of her imagination; but she did object, she did not like, she could not bear to think of people not having and enjoying their meals. Besides the table close by loaded with books, there was a central table with upright chairs around, covered in a multitude of papers, inks and quills, and assorted unrelated items such as playing cards. She tried to be casual. Well, I told aunt. . ’ Melusine jumped up, full of new hope, all the earlier clouds vanishing from her horizon.
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