” “Very well,” Anna said. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. Now, you and I can gossip at a gate, and Honi soit qui mal y pense. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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