“At a boarding-house?” he gasped. Ogilvy was full of a client’s trouble in that matter, a grave and even tragic trouble. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. Like a river swollen by many currents, it gathered force from the various avenues that poured their streams into it. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated.
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