Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. Whatever he wrote he was: he became this or that character, he suffered or prospered equally. “Anna, you are the dearest, bravest sister in the world,” she cried. "I did all for the best, as I'll explain. But I will not believe you. Wagner had just been in love when he wrote it all. She watched the people and hummed softly to herself. Very well, I give up. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Then blackness.
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