She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. “How’s Mrs. " "I am sorry. My wife—killed me. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue.
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