She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. She shook them off of one foot. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. Her cogitations were dissipated by a knock on the door. E. ‘I live in Kent. He looked at her reproachfully.
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