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“It ain’t your body. It’s your head. Something’s wrong with your think-machine. Even I can see that, an’ I ain’t nobody.” He walked on beside her, reflecting. “I’d give anything to see you get over it,” she broke out impulsively. “You ought to care when women look at you that way, a man like you. […]

There were things, however, in the magazines that amused him. All the magazines were claiming him. WARREN’S MONTHLY advertised to its subscribers that it was always on the quest after new writers, and that, among others, it had introduced Martin Eden to the reading public. THE WHITE MOUSE claimed him; so did THE NORTHERN REVIEW […]

‘But about the respectable business first,’ said my aunt. ‘If he had been your own boy, you would have put him to it, just the same, I suppose?’ ‘If he had been my brother’s own boy,’ returned Miss Murdstone, striking in, ‘his character, I trust, would have been altogether different.’ ‘Or if the poor child, […]

Mr. Dick took his finger out of his mouth, on this hint, and stood among the group, with a grave and attentive expression of face. My aunt inclined her head to Mr. Murdstone, who went on: ‘Miss Trotwood: on the receipt of your letter, I considered it an act of greater justice to myself, and […]

‘No, sir,’ said my aunt. ‘Certainly not!’ With which she pushed me into a corner near her, and fenced Me in with a chair, as if it were a prison or a bar of justice. This position I continued to occupy during the whole interview, and from it I now saw Mr. and Miss Murdstone […]