A lean young man in spectacles pursued her for some time, crying “Courage! Courage!” Somebody threw a dab of mud at her, and some of it got down her neck. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. Anna left the room on tiptoe.
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