“You poor little girl!” he cried. ‘Rather thought I’d have to disarm you when you heard of it. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. 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. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. I'm ready to bear it all.
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