“Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. He was really very proud of her, and extraordinarily angry and resentful at the innocent and audacious selfreliance that seemed to intimate her sense of absolute independence of him, her absolute security without him. How are you?” “I’m fine,” she said, unaware of all events except for the voice on the other line. At last his voice came to release her tension. So far she had the utmost difficulty in getting on to that vitally important matter.
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