He has no imagination, no real generosity. “Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. Anna thrust hers into her pocket unopened, and for the first time left the house without a smile upon her face. Out of these he selected a faded parchment and restored the rest to safety.
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