A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. 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. “That’s all,” she said “I’m afraid I’m a little confused about these things. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it.
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