She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. A fever of shame ran through her being. Standing before a mirror set on a dresser between the windows, two hands frozen in the act of adjusting a wide-brimmed hat on her head, stood a lady in a dark riding habit, her startled features turned towards the door. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. The men have never had so much work to do since they banded. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. Towards night, however, he ventured out, and walked on towards London.
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