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 upon her. It was a luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more of a woman than she really was. She had inherited the feature from her mother without the quality it denoted. It had troubled her mind occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which time would cure.

She soon had finished her lunch. ‘Now I am going home’, sir, she said, rising.

‘And what do they call you?’ he asked, as he accompanied her along the drive till they were out of sight of the house.

‘Tess Durbeyfield, down at Marlott.’

‘And you say your people have lost their horse?’

‘I—killed him!’ she answered, her eyes filling with tears as she gave particulars of Prince’s death. ‘And I don’t know what to do for father on account of it!’

‘I must think if I cannot do something. My mother must find a berth for you. But, Tess, no nonsense about “D’Urberville”;—“Durbeyfield” only, you know—quite another name.’

‘I wish for no better, sir’ said she with something of dignity.