Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. " The lad made no answer, but left the room. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. Am I mistaken? Is your heart mine?" "It is—it is; and has ever been," replied Winifred, falling upon his neck.
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