From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. I love you still, Anna, but life holds other things than the love of man for woman. She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. He not only failed in making any impression, but seemed to increase the difficulties, for after an hour's toil he had broken the nail and slightly bent the iron bar. A dozen books lay upon the counterpane.
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