A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. Sheppard despairingly. In the second, she was wretchedly poor, and assailed by temptations of which you can form no idea. Wood's favourite sitting-room, and her image was so intimately associated with it, neither the carpenter nor his daughter could muster courage to enter it before. But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. They’re all wonderful cooks.
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