“And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question. I’ve loved her for two years, I love her now. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. She sat down by the paperrack with a general feeling of resemblance to Vivie Warren, and looked through the Morning Post and Standard and Telegraph, and afterward the half-penny sheets.
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