It’s an instinct. “You propose, then,” she remarked, “that I shall still be saddled with a pseudo husband. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. ” She lifted her eyebrows. "Hush!—come hither, and I'll tell you.
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