She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. ’ ‘Wait!’ Leaning forward, Hilary tapped on the panel. "My father!" she whispered. " "I see through your design, Jack," returned the carpenter, gravely; "but I don't like under-hand work.
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