He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. "All life is a muddle, and we are all muddlers, more or less. Manning loomed up ever and again into her world, full of a futile solicitude, and almost always declaring she was splendid, splendid, and wishing he could talk things out with her. And on Monday and Tuesday she had failed to find him here. There are some papers I have to look through to-night—important papers. I want my freedom.
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