"Dear me!" she added, as she pledged the amorous woollen-draper, "what a beautiful ring that is. It was not only that her father had said all sorts of inconsistent and unreasonable things, but that by some incomprehensible infection she herself had replied in the same vein. It reverberated in the silence. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard. The Supper at Mr. Gossip was the driving force in Sheila’s existence.
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