He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. Then he lifted the black cloak-like garment from the floor. Here again instinct guided her. What the editor had to say none of the three cared just then. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself.
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