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Updated: May 22, 2025
March, who made him talk about himself when he supposed he was talking about literature, in the hope that she could get him to talk about the Triscoes; but she listened in vain as he poured out-his soul in theories of literary art, and in histories of what he had written and what he meant to write.
He followed him again with a last resolve, annihilating return. On approaching the nook in which the fold was constructed, the farmer drew out-his pocket-book, unfastened-it, and allowed it to lie open on his hand. A letter was revealed Bath- sheba's. "I was going to ask you, Oak." he said, with unreal carelessness, "if you know whose writing this is?
And he pressed her hand closer while he spoke. She answered, "Still, tell me all." And she felt that, so listening, the heaviest worldly sorrow would have fallen light. "I was long before I could discover Mr. Vanbrugh, and still longer before I found out-his abode. Day after day I met him, and talked with him at the Sistine, but he never spoke of his home, or asked me thither. He had good reason."
March, who made him talk about himself when he supposed he was talking about literature, in the hope that she could get him to talk about the Triscoes; but she listened in vain as he poured out-his soul in theories of literary art, and in histories of what he had written and what he meant to write.
March, who made him talk about himself when he supposed he was talking about literature, in the hope that she could get him to talk about the Triscoes; but she listened in vain as he poured out-his soul in theories of literary art, and in histories of what he had written and what he meant to write.
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