He was—a millionaire. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. She had but to choose. Besides, I'm afraid her simple honesty will spoil any invented yarn. The crowding impressions of the previous weeks seemed to run together directly her mind left the chaotic search for employment and came into touch again with a coherent and systematic development of ideas. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.
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