It was the crowned queen of mountains in her robes of shining white. Her eyes threatened to leak tears, she blinked. In the distance a barrel-organ was grinding out a pot pourri of popular airs. ” “Thank you very much,” Anna said. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “I wonder,” he said, “is there anything we could do to help you to get rid of him?” “Can you think of anything?” Anna answered.
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