"Old Morgan the trader," she explained, "used to save me Tit-Bits. Lassitude?” “I suppose so. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. I am sure he would go with you. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. “What is the good of pretending?” she said.
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