He was dressed with the utmost care, and he set his feet upon the broad walk as though the action were in some way a condescension. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. ” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born. ‘Go then. But what did he know beyond these facts? Nothing, clearly. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. I suppose because it IS the chief thing in life.
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