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Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. ” She growled. Both had dropped the rather elaborate politeness of the dining-room, and in their faces an impartial observer would have discovered little lines of obstinate wilfulness in common; a certain hardness—sharp, indeed, in the father and softly rounded in the daughter—but hardness nevertheless, that made every compromise a bargain and every charity a discount. I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. “Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. “Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. You understand. He had grabbed a tiny remote control and flew the thing around the table, landing it there and turning it off.
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