‘I am not in the least in a rage. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. " The Wastrel laughed. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. She had time in the afternoons to do crewelwork and embroidery, no longer occupied by the constant spinning of wool.
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