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she was a fair woman, with light hair and large eyes, rather a devotee of literature. ‘Yes,’ said her uncle, ‘I thought you’d be pleased with it. I presume it came from the house: it turned up in the rubbish-heap in the corner.’ ‘I’m not sure that I do like it, after all,’ said Mary, some minutes later. ‘Why in the world not, my dear?’ ‘I don’t know, I’m sure. Perhaps it’s only fancy.’ ‘Yes, only fancy and romance, of course. What’s that book, now—the name of that book, I mean, that you had your head in all yesterday?’ ‘The Talisman, Uncle. Oh, if this should turn out to be a talisman, how enchanting it would be!’ ‘Yes, The Talisman: ah, well, you’re welcome to it, whatever it is: I must be off about my business. Is all well in the house? Does it suit you? Any complaints from the servants’ hall?’ ‘No, indeed, nothing could be more charming. The only soupçon of a complaint besides the lock of the linen closet, which I told you of, is that Mrs. Maple says she cannot get rid of the sawflies out of that room you pass through at the other end of the hall. By the way, are you sure you like your bedroom? It is a long way off from any one else, you know.’ ‘Like