“Anna!” she repeated. She is, in her way, a dear. " The doctor sent her a sharp, quizzical glance. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. When he recovered his mental faculties, he would lie there, neutral; they could save him or let him die, as they pleased; and the doctor knew that he would wear himself out forcing his own will to live into this neutrality. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon.
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