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495828
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Persuasion
6.552
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never
took up any book but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in
a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the
limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic
affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the
last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an
interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:
"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL."
took up any book but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in
a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the
limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic
affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the
last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an
interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:
"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL."
Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never
took up any book but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in
a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the
limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic
affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the
last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an
interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:
"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL."
took up any book but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in
a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the
limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic
affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the
last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an
interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened:
"ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL."
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