"I'm glad to hear it, that's all," he added, taking out his snuff-box, his never-failing resource in such emergencies. She was powerless to move from her chair. Wood's reply, if he intended any, was cut short by a loud knocking at the door. 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. She knew that to expect more now was like anticipating a gold-mine in the garden.
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