It was high afternoon, there was no great throng of footpassengers, and many an eye from omnibus and pavement rested gratefully on her fresh, trim presence as she passed young and erect, with the light of determination shining through the quiet self-possession of her face. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. I could never have talked to you like this, forgetting everything that parts us, forgetting even your age, if I did not love you utterly. There are times when you make me feel a little thing at your feet—a young, silly, protected thing.
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