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Depression

           

           Agneshadlistenedatfirstwithsuspendedbreath.Hercolourstillcameandwent,butshebreathedmorefreely.IthoughtIknewwhy.Ithoughtshehadhadsomefearthatherunhappyfathermightbeinsomewaytoblameforwhathadhappened.Myaunttookherhandinhers,andlaughed.

           ‘Isthatall?’repeatedmyaunt.‘Why,yes,that’sall,except,“Andshelivedhappyeverafterwards.”PerhapsImayaddthatofBetseyyet,oneofthesedays.Now,Agnes,youhaveawisehead.Sohaveyou,Trot,insomethings,thoughIcan’tcomplimentyoualways’;andheremyauntshookherownatme,withanenergypeculiartoherself.‘What’stobedone?Here’sthecottage,takingonetimewithanother,willproducesayseventypoundsayear.Ithinkwemaysafelyputitdownatthat.Well!That’sallwe’vegot,’saidmyaunt;withwhomitwasanidiosyncrasy,asitiswithsomehorses,tostopveryshortwhensheappearedtobeinafairwayofgoingonforalongwhile.

           ‘Then,’saidmyaunt,afterarest,‘there’sDick.He’sgoodforahundreda-year,butofcoursethatmustbeexpendedonhimself.Iwouldsoonersendhimaway,thoughIknowIamtheonlypersonwhoappreciateshim,thanhavehim,andnotspendhismoneyonhimself.

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Roboto Lora
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