She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. I was not even sure whether it was loaded. At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her. “Yes, I have heard of him, and I know him by sight,” he admitted. I don't know anything about you.
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