He pushed her small hand into his jeans. She would be surrendering to all her impulses—particularly the good impulses—many of which society had condemned long since because they entailed too much trouble. "A little. Dump popped his head into the cage. I never let her read stories, or have pets, dolls. He continued thoughtfully. Grasping one of chairs about the little table, he drew it forward and sat astride it, in a fashion as insolent as it was unexpected. 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. “I shall probably want you to come down to the ‘Unusual’ to-morrow morning,” he said.
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