All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. He had not remembered her as looking so small. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. I don’t. . ’ ‘If he has a bullet inside of him,’ said the sergeant stolidly, ‘there ain’t no one can take it out better nor me.
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