“Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. On the right, stood a bulky figure, with a broken rattle hanging out of his great-coat pocket, who held up a lantern to his battered countenance to prove to the spectators that both his orbs of vision were darkened: on the left, a meagre constable had divested himself of his shirt, to bind up with greater convenience a gaping cut in the arm. A distant suggestion of chalets and a glimpse of the road set them talking for a time of the world they had left behind.
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