It was the bitterest moment of her life. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. The fire still burned brightly. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. He trembled violently. The oblique ruddy lighting distorted them oddly, made queer bars and patches of shadow upon their clothes. ’ ‘Must we talk of it? I’m trying to forget it.
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