Anna, with her marvellous capacity for enjoyment, ate cakes and laughed, and forgot that she had had tea an hour or so ago at an A. She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. ‘Beg your pardon, ma’am, but she’s enough to try the patience of a saint. Our ideal had fallen. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. “It is very doubtful,” he said. Tight. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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