Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. We had such a pride in you, such hope in you. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. He was human. “I do,” Anna answered. Quilt, who was an ardent lover of mischief, could not help laughing most heartily at the rueful appearance of these personages. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back.
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