“Anna,” he cried eagerly. This is your room. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. “Your mother was a Gypsy. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came.
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