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The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. At last, she breathed. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. I was worried. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. And yet—you millionaires should really, I think, cultivate the art of discrimination.
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