” Sir John stamped his letters, brushed his hat, and carefully gave his moustache an upward curl before the looking-glass. “And for me it has been Pride and Pride and Pride! “I am the prodigal daughter. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. At present the world waits for that writer, and the confused record of the newspapers remains the only resource of the curious. Sometimes it seemed that she would never recover it.
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