The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. He glanced up. ” “I forgive you willingly,” Anna said, bending over him. Nobody can trust you. She forced herself not to think of John. ‘Would you care for some refreshment? A glass of wine, perhaps?’ ‘Nothing, merci, I do not remain,’ she answered, although she did not rise. Look at it, I say. In each pause she could sense his growing trepidation. Years ago I marked out an intinerary for myself; but the trip never materialized. ” “Then I,” she said, “have too much character.
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