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. “You remember the man in Paris who used to follow me about—Meysey Hill they called him?” He nodded. It seemed to encapsulate the mosquito like a little piece of moonlight, it was talismanic to her.
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