‘We don’t know who she is. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. I'll forgive him if he does. Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition. It was she—— Anna’s nerves were not easily shaken, but she found herself suddenly clutching at the table for support. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know.
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