Anything in the least irregular is like poison to him. “Come, we must go home and have some luncheon. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. You go cheer him up. And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck.
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