” Anna leaned back in the chair and laughed softly. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. 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. He had shaved his side-whiskers and come over in flannels, but he was still indisputably the same person who had attended Ann Veronica for the measles and when she swallowed the fish-bone. It was then for the first time she remembered that she had said nothing to her sister of the man in the hospital. This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. It was no marriage at all. Brendon suggests supper at the Carlton.
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