‘Up, Jacques, up,’ she ordered. " "Here it is," replied Edgeworth Bess. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question.
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