Every one looked at Anna. Kimble was clearly a plain-spoken fellow. ‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. It could not be she who had done this. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only. “Loneliness,” she said, “is a luxury which I never permit myself.
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