At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. I hate children. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. " "May I trust you?" hesitated Thames.
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