“Good evening, Dorling,” he said. 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. She knew that I cared for her, she had admitted that she cared for me. “David,” she said, “you are not a coward, are you?” “I do not know,” he muttered. See paragraph 1.
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