She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. “You don’t know him, Anna,” she said with a little shudder, “or you would not talk like that. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. Marry me. ‘Now I see why you’re marrying this woman, Hilary.
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