“My name,” Anna replied calmly, “is certainly Pellissier, but I repeat that I do not know you. ‘A spitfire, ain’t she, sir?’ Roding ignored this. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently.
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