Well, I am Nigel Ennison’s sister!” “Oh!” Anna said. “Do come and see the Michaelmas daisies at the end of the garden,” said Mr. Practically. He worked afternoons, when everybody else went to sleep; he worked at night under a heat-giving light, with insects buzzing and dropping about, with a blue haze of tobacco smoke that tried to get out and could not. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips.
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