Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. She had expected a love story; and love was totally absent. Anna, you shall not go.
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