She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. Anna suddenly leaned forward and looked around her. I wanted you to know. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter. Trodger was lying in wait at the bottom of the narrow stairs. Immediately after it, he was off again, and that, let me tell you, was the last anyone saw of him.
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