She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. But he had always felt (he had never allowed himself to think of it) that the promptitude of their family was a little indelicate of her, and in a sense an intrusion.
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