But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. ” “Never better in my life,” Anna declared briskly. “I will believe you. Home!— which I never hoped to see again. She addressed her letters, meditated on them for a time, and then took them out and posted them. It is for that reason that this novel begins with her there, and neither earlier nor later, for it is the history of this crisis and its consequences that this novel has to tell.
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