Her roving eagerness was at all times shaded with shyness, reserve, repression. “All right. Sheppard. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. Will you marry me?” Anna looked at him in blank amazement. "I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. I'm speaking of virtuous women—of WIVES, Madam.
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