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. She had nothing to say for herself. Be a good wife to him. The tension was palpable. Vorsack looked pale and pink. She frowned, appearing to think for a moment. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door.
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