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. Sir John gave his order, deliberately stumbling now and then over a word, and anglicizing others. Lucy jammed her foot down onto Mark McCloskey’s forehead. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep.
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