Their conversation became stilted. “We will see that he never annoys you. And she defies me. We dine at seven-thirty. The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. “These are her rooms,” she said. We’re going in. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. Anna, quitting her chair, dropped on her knees by her sister’s side and took her hand. “The young women of Jane Austen’s time didn’t get into this sort of scrape! At least—one thinks so. .
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