Hill sat up on the pavement and mopped the blood from his cheek. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame. You, Anna, are one of them. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. He regarded that perennial miracle of pinning with wrathful eyes. ‘Get the swords!’ ‘I’ll see to him.
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