Finally she decided upon a step that had always seemed reasonable to her, but that hitherto she had, from motives too faint for her to formulate, refrained from taking. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. 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. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. Jackson’s.
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