If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. “You are unjust and quixotic, Anna, you have no right to treat any one as you are treating me. She was aware of it now as if it were a voice shouting outside a house, shouting passionate verities in a hot sunlight, a voice that cries while people talk insincerely in a darkened room and pretend not to hear. If only to say goodbye.
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