“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. “Of course you don’t. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. It was an awful moment—so awful, that every other feeling except deep interest in the scene seemed suspended. The mummies were tossed into the collection. She found herself trying on the baubles he brought home, placing the silver rings upon her slim fingers, knowing that he would take up her hand and kiss it. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him. You’d think he wanted to meet the wretch again. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict. Really they are the most beautiful things in the world.
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