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For nearly thirty years he had lived here in contented loneliness; then youth had to come and fill him with discontent. Understand me. “Heaven knows!” said Mr. Will you please—Not now, or I must go. The Morning Post was hungry for governesses and nursery governesses, but held out no other hopes; the Daily Telegraph that morning seemed eager only for skirt hands. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress.
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