“NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. But a doll that rolled its eyes and had flaxen hair! Except for the manual labour—there had been natives to fetch and carry—she and Cosette were sisters in loneliness. She was frightfully hungry. She felt a lump rise in her throat, for she had come to love living in America. His hand went with an almost instinctive inquiry to his jawbone again.
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