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. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. “Why should I bear the burden of your wickedness? Who knows what might come of it? I shall permit nothing of the sort. It isn’t the same thing.
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