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. The only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback. Spurlock's vision was oddly of the past.
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