Let her have her own way in all things, for she will always be just. Suddenly Anna felt her hand seized and imprisoned in Courtlaw’s burning fingers. The lamp was not yet lit, and in the dim light he bent forward as though trying to look into her averted face. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. A mutual recognition took place at the same instant between the stranger and this individual. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer.
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