“I do not like to seem inhospitable, Anna,” she said hesitatingly. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. He had changed her life dramatically, and she had missed him dreadfully. “Well, you certainly did very well at tea,” she remarked. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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