It was a queer little bed-sitting-room almost in the roof, with a partition right across it. I feel like a fraudulent trustee. I don’t know anyone. Your pets are gone. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. "I've a good mind not to speak to you again, Sir!" cried Winifred, with difficulty repressing a tear of vexation; "you've acted unfairly. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery.
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