Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. There was a coffee equipage on the table, and some sandwiches, and the fire had been recently made up. But at this, he halted, turning his frowning gaze back on her. ‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. ” They were in the elder Widgett girl’s bedroom; Hetty was laid up, she said, with a sprained ankle, and a miscellaneous party was gossiping away her tedium.
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