There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. There stood John and Mr. He is the one who has said that she must go to the convent. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged.
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