"Give me the link," cried Jonathan. She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. The Becks were the best foster family that she had ever had. "You'll not forget the thousand, Sir Rowland—short accounts, you know. We’re hedged about with discretions— and all this furniture—and successes! We are successful at last! Successful! But the mountains, dear! We won’t forget the mountains, dear, ever. You must—you shall be mine. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. Gosse was backing towards the table.
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