His tone was rough, almost threatening. 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. “How shall I put the question? What am I? What have I got to do with myself?. I want to enrich it with hangings and gladden it with verses. It was a spring-tide at half ebb; and the current, which was running fast and furiously, bore him instantly away.
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