She addressed Anna with a beaming smile and a very creditable mixture of condescension and officiousness. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. “I thank you for your advice,” she said. "Is this a season to speak on such a subject?" "Perhaps not," rejoined the woollen-draper; "but the uncontrollable violence of my passion must plead my excuse. And it is your own fault that your husband dallies with me.
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