“Who killed her husband?” “Go and nurse him, missus!” “Murderess!” Anna looked from left to right. "I give you all of my genius, and you say—'Get out!' I am some kind of a dog. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Don’t you care for Nigel at all?” Anna was silent for a moment or two. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition. “Too bad to keep you waiting,” Annabel exclaimed.
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