She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket. There was something which chilled even him in the cold impassivity of her features. It must be somewhere hereabouts. “You have them both,” Anna answered. A failure! She must write herself down a failure! At her age, with her ambitions, with her artistic temperament and creative instincts, she was yet to be denied all coherent means of expression.
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