He had more time for her. Into one of these the waterman jumped, and, having assisted Mr. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. With some difficulty he contrived to raise her to the window, and with still greater difficulty to squeeze her through it—her bulk being much greater than his own. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming.
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