The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. I may say that the amount of the annuity I propose to allow you is two hundred a year. But he was at last persuaded that I mean you no harm, and that I might—just possibly, since I am both a gentleman and a major of militia—be able to be of more assistance to you than he himself. Anna left the room on tiptoe. But I'm sure it's important. .
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