She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Stanley, at the door. Her heart's in the right place, at all events; and, since that's the case, the rest may perhaps come round, —that is, if she gets through her present illness.
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