“It is positively no use, Anna,” she declared, appealingly. . Sheppard, horror-stricken. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. I tried to have it out with him, but he wouldn’t have it out. The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. It’s a beautiful plant, but a tender one.
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