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. ‘You were right, miss. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. " "Are you a real nurse?" "Yes. I believe I have always been in love with you.
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