He started a dozen stories, but they all ended in the waste-basket. 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. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. 'Whoso giveth to the poor lendeth to the Lord;' that's my comfort. “Your success here is absolutely meteoric. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write.
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