Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance, communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour. Why must her old nurse discover her precisely at this moment? ‘What are you at now, may I ask?’ Martha glared at the footman. All that is jolly and as it should be. CHAPTER IX.
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