She walked for a mile or more recklessly, close veiled, with swift level footsteps, though her brain was in a whirl and a horrible faintness all the time hovered about her. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. Anna said nothing. Yet her hands dropped, and she sighed deeply. He looked at her, hurt. She took hand cannon and began to arm it.
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