‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. Anna was singing as she used to sing. Yes—as he would have liked. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. You have been burning paper, I see. "If any one's to blame, it's me. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. ” “I don’t see why I shouldn’t.
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