The latter request, though treated with supreme contempt by Mr. ” “You love—Anna?” she exclaimed. She felt scrawny, lanky, badly dressed in a baggy black T-shirt, sweaty, not at all beautiful; not even pretty. It isn’t the same thing. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. It dealt with fine aspects of Mr.
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