Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. "Thames!—Thames!" cried Winifred, rushing to the window. A deadlock. Why do I want him so badly? Why do I want him, and think about him, and fail to get away from him? “It isn’t all of me. “I do,” Anna answered.
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