” Anna had suddenly stiffened. They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. Wood hadn't struck me. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. It was an impulse. ‘This is not love, Marthe.
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