They are used to me, they only cry because they have become so used to being here. Tears began to stream from her cheeks. I will do all this not because I love you, but—because you are Anna’s sister. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. She was finally dead, going to Hell. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping.
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