Don’t you think that the shade of my hair is lovely?” “There is nothing particular the matter with the shade,” Anna answered, “but it is not nearly so becoming as before you touched it. Presently McClintock came in. Her knees were trembling, her whole frame was shaken with sobs. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching.
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