She spoke with a certain odd deliberation carefully chosen words which fell like drops of ice upon the man who sat listening. I have a few regular patients, and I take care of them in the morning. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. “It is a night of endings,” she murmured to herself. Anna watched her from the windows, watched the carriage jolt away along the cobbled street and disappear.
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