Her head snapped back as he grabbed her by the hair. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. “Anna! What tragedy has happened, little sister? No lights, no supper, no coffee —and, above all, no Mr. Don’t try. She smiled mechanically at the audience, holding her violin limply, feeling the hot lights on her made-up face. Aware of the cunning and desperate characters of the persons with whom she would have to deal,—aware, also, that she was in a quarter where no laws could be appealed to, nor assistance obtained, she felt the absolute necessity of caution.
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