You must forgive the poet’s license I take. In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this. “I thought that I heard a groan,” Anna whispered. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief.
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