Then making a pretence of stooping to rearrange her flowing train, she glanced at Anna, and half stopped in her progress down the room. “What nonsense is this? What raving! My dear child, you DO live, you DO exist! You have this home. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. ” He shook her diminutive hand.
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