Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. “You look more like your old self when you smile,” he remarked. She could not bear the shame of it. Your uncle—our uncle is with him. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing. Listen, you. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon.
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