In response to an almost imperative gesture from the nurse, Anna laid her hand upon his. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Sensitive, aren’t they?” She chuckled. 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. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way.
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