His eyes were small and grey; as far apart and as sly-looking as those of a fox. “Anna,” he cried eagerly. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. “I am very much obliged for the tea,” she said.
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