Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. “At a boarding-house?” he gasped. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. A shout was heard at a little distance, and, the next moment, a person rushed with breathless haste to the stair-head. “I think, aunt,” she said, “you might trust to my self-respect to keep me out of that.
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