You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. V. It was her figure, her style of dress, her manner of arranging the hair.
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