But probably not the truth. 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. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. Always her prayers ended—'And may my beautiful mother guide me!' No. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. .
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