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How dare you use my name and sing my songs?” Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. ” “I can’t go back to the Beck’s ever again. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. Nobody could possibly find him now.
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