He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. So here I am, king of all I survey, with a predilection for poker, a scorched liver, and a piano-player. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. “You poor child!” he said; “don’t you see the infinite folly of these proceedings? Think! Think of the love and affection you abandon! Think of your aunt, a second mother to you. It was only by the adoption of such a course (especially since the late act of suppression, to which we have alluded,) that the inviolability of the asylum could be preserved.
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