She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping. Anna sat quite still for a moment, and then the colour suddenly returned to her cheeks. "Couldn't you speak to him?" "What?—and be insulted for my trouble? No, thank you!" "That is it. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. There one is! The same stuff still! One has a craving in one’s blood, a craving roused, cut off from its redeeming and guiding emotional side.
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