Each manuscript was like the other: the same lovely treatment of an unlovely subject. There never is much left for me. Only a son’s another story. Great stone staircases leading no one knew whither, and long gloomy passages, impressed the occasional visitor with the idea that he was traversing a building of vast extent; and, though this was not the case in reality, the deception was so cleverly contrived that it seldom failed of producing the intended effect. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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