“We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. “I promise, Lucy. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. He knew she had been weeping. ” Anna laughed softly. One day it was gone. A beachcomber in embryo, and she had lent a hand through habit as much as through pity. At once there came an answering knock. .
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