There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. Once in England, she made all haste to visit Remenham House. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come.
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