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IT IS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO on November 12th since Elizabeth Gaskell died suddenly at the age of fifty‐five. She had not begun to write seriously until she was nearly forty, but during those fifteen years wrote seven major novels, a biography and many short stories. Her premature death was a deprivation to English literature and innumerable characters with whom her mind teemed were never brought to life to add to the host of friends that readers of her books find in her pages.

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