I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. So far as I am concerned, I am just now a hopeless nonentity. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin.
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