Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. She attended to that, and then dismissed it as unimportant. Her heart thudded. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. Anna admitted the fact. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. "I will have it now," rejoined Trenchard, "or our agreement is void.
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