Her mother had died when she was thirteen, her two much older sisters had married off—one submissively, one insubordinately; her two brothers had gone out into the world well ahead of her, and so she had made what she could of her father. Sheila pounded the kitchen table, causing the bell jar with the silk flowers to tip over and roll to the floor. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. They were only passers-by. They’ll know. “Take her limbs again. That’s the fact about them. His condition is not unfavourable, but there may be a relapse at any moment.
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