Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. You sent back my Christmas checks. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. ‘Oh, are there? You are not quite alone in these adventures of yours, I take it. I say, I'll take the yarn over and read it to McClintock.
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