"Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget.
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