There’d only be endless rows if I was at home. His literary instincts began to stir. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. Too much, perhaps. He thanked God for this talent of his. Better come another morning. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. But she had spent nearly half of it, and had no conception of how such a sum could be made good again.
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