Anna stood looking down upon her sister with grave perturbed face. "I am only fit for such as him. And now, my love," she added, with a relenting look, "I'm content to make up our quarrel. He took up his hat and went. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. CHAPTER I. The doctor and Anna were left alone.
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