He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. Part 3 She dismissed the first hotels she passed, she scarcely knew why, mainly perhaps from the mere dread of entering them, and crossed Waterloo Bridge at a leisurely pace. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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