"But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. Wood, in a taunting tone. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn.
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