Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. I’ve made up my mind. He waved a cordial goodbye. She was crushed with a sense of her own terrible impotency. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this.
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