“Dear husband,” she murmured. "You think our sex has no feeling, I suppose, Sir," cried Mrs. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “I did,” Anna answered. ” He said admiringly. “Can you take any from me?” “No, I won’t do that. My poor brain is so mixed, dear, I hardly know what I am saying. He had an air of having told her a deep, personal secret. It is better to face the truth.
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