"To-morrow I will take you to him. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. His hand shook so violently that he dropped the handkerchief; and he let it lie on the floor because he dared not stoop. You can trust me, Anna. . . So far as the eye could reach, the white level road, with its fringe of elm-trees, was empty. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. ” “I will think of it,” she promised. She heard the television blaring away.
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