“Anna!” she repeated. ” “He probably does not know of the relationship,” Annabel remarked. ‘Didn’t mean to say that. Fancy, as they say hereabouts!" What had aroused this open-air monologue was a small tin sign in a window. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. I could not dream of loving you.
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