The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. ‘But I was not there. Anna sprang lightly away across the street. You got my note?” “I certainly received a note,” Anna admitted. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour.
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