"Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. “I wrote it for you. He himself, middle-aged, steeped in traditions of the City and moneymaking, very ill-skilled in all the lighter graces of life, as he himself well knew, could yet come to her invested with something of the halo of romance by the almost magical powers of an unlimited banking account. The tension was palpable. On his return to the room, Jonathan purposely left the door of the Well Hole ajar. Last week.
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