You, Anna, are one of them. “Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. He had a handsome, jolly-looking face; stood six feet two in his stockings; and measured more than a cloth-yard shaft across the shoulders—athletic proportions derived from his father the dragoon. “I will make of the days and weeks one long morning, but remember the afternoon must come.
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