I called myself Anna. The action steadied him; and there was a phase of irony, too, that helped. This was the body of a man, apparently lifeless, and stretched upon a mattress, with his head bound up in a linen cloth, through which the blood had oosed. It came again. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN.
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