It was apparent, and then it faded into the quality of an inevitable necessity. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. Below her stretched a valley of rich meadowland, of yellow cornfields, and beyond moorland hillside glorious with purple heather and golden gorse. My mother shall never degrade herself by a connection with you. It had ceased raining, but the atmosphere was moist and chill, and the ground deluged by the recent showers. Or I should have made love to you long ago. That is what I don't understand.
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