It throbs cruelly. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. “Indeed, no,” he answered. Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. She aimed directly at Rhea’s head. She is no longer mine; she is yours. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated.
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