‘Nothing. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. These fellows must be right,” he added thoughtfully, “and yet—there’s a mystery somewhere.
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