I see. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. She pushed. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding. I have nothing, nothing that can possibly be passion for you. No fear o' that. You know I call that positively wicked. I have no intention of arresting you. His literary instincts began to stir.
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