On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Very glad. In other respects, they were equally indecorous and offensive. His pale and boyish waist was nearly as slim as her own. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. ’ ‘A pox on the creature,’ swore Mrs Sindlesham, clenching and unclenching her stiff fingers. ’ He called through the library door. In the midst of this light stood a young woman. I will do all this not because I love you, but—because you are Anna’s sister. .
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