Then there was also the horse. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “I am not sure,” Anna answered. If it was not an actual personal lover, it still might be the lover not yet incarnate, not yet perhaps suspected. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit.
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