Chapter VII MISS PELLISSIER’S SUSPICIONS “Anna!” Anna kissed her sister and nodded to her aunt. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. He would never be able to figure out that: all these miles from Cuba, and you could get a perfecto for thirteen cents. Perhaps you'll call that charity: I call it defeating the ends of justice. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more.
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