“I love you, Anna, and I want you for my wife. “But I have no troubles. Here again instinct guided her. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. ” “Oh, you are strong and brave,” Annabel murmured. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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