” “Where is your husband?” Anna asked. She held out her hand frankly. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself.
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