" "You paint yourself worse than you are, dear Mrs. ‘Valade, if you don’t mind. ” Chapter XXXII SIX MONTHS AFTER Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. The will to live had returned. Bah.
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