“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. I loved her beyond anything in heaven or on earth—to idolatry. Wood, however, was too much excited to attend to the caution.
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