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 “And were you fond of her?”

“I was.”

“And did you ever ?”

“Never. Now my gloves are made by some one else.”

Annie concentrated her attention on the ground. “Why do you always hide your hands from me?”

“Because because they are so knocked about,” said Prokop, and the poor fellow grew red.

“They are just as nice that way,” whispered Annie with her eyes cast down.

“Din—ner, din—ner,” cried Nanda from the house. “Goodness, already,” said Annie, and reluctantly got up.

After dinner the old doctor rested for a bit. “You know,” he excused himself, “I’ve been slaving this morning like a dog.” And a moment afterwards he was snoring away. They signalled to one another with their eyes and left the room on tiptoe; and even in the garden they spoke quietly, as if they respected his repose.

Prokop was obliged to narrate the story of his own life. Where he was born, where he grew up, that he had been as far. as America, the poverty which he had endured, what he had done and where. It did him good to go over his life in this way; he was astonished to find that it was more wonderful and complicated than he had imagined; but there was much which he was silent about, especially certain emotional experiences since, in the first place, they were of no significance, and, in the second, every man has certain things of which he cannot