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You must wait till supper's over. Anna failed in her painting, our money was gone, and she was forced to earn her own living. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. She was trying by some wonderful, secret, and motionless gymnastics to restrain her tears. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright.
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