’ ‘You mean the bookroom, miss. I can be that man, the one I know you want. ‘What in Hades d’ye mean, thanks to me? Want to blame anyone, blame that rapscallion who calls himself your father. I wish they would just get it over with. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you. He was no match for Brendon. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf.
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