A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient. “This,” he said, and then: “No! Is this sweeter? Very well. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign. ’ A sudden thought brought a frown to her brow. It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. They had turned into the street, on the opposite side of which were the flats where Anna lived. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around.
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