For a moment she remained silent. Anna hailed a bus. The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. “They say there are spots on the sun. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She never knew what became of her farmer after that. Their very furniture had mysteriously a high-browed quality, and Mr.
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