“Shot through the lungs,” he remarked. "I can readily see," he said, "why you'll always be as poor as a church mouse. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. But in the appendix of the dictionary she had discovered magic names—Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray, Hawthorne, Lytton. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. “He spends hours of every day on the pavement below,” Anna answered calmly.
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