Anna’s face was half turned from him, but her expression, and the tone of her monosyllable puzzled him. A queer game this: he could not move directly as in an ordinary case of manhunt. Her eyes filled as she thought of him, the image of his laughing countenance coming into her mind, to be swiftly followed by a vision of the blood running from his cut hand. Sheppard. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience. She felt that she was not alone.
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