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Anna, who had thrown aside her sealskin coat, wore a tight-fitting walking dress of some dark shade. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking. It was debauching, this—a devilish art which drew such strange allurements from a face and figure almost Madonna-like in their simplicity. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew.
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