(“No, no. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. It was the first expression of the mother's blood. “Only married a few months ago and lived out at Hampstead. He whispered in her ear. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. I too, Anna, have watched and read of your success with—I must confess it—some misgiving. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. Still—” Then, with incredible and obviously deliberate stupidity, and a voice as flat as her own, he asked, “Who is the man?” Her spirit raged within her at the dumbness, the paralysis that had fallen upon her.
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