She did not have the power of men. Secretly she was gratified to be assigned to the rôle of an old traveller. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. That is what my mother used to call me. " "Pity!" shrieked the widow. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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