“Yes. ” “You have not told me yet,” Annabel said, “how it is that you have dared to personate me. Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal. A quarter of an hour passed. He drove her home that night, kissing her again and again at stoplights. Sister Angelina shook her head as if to say that such ignorance was beyond her. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. Anna lets the deception continue and has to bear the burden of her sister’s reputation which, in Paris at any rate, is that of being a coquette. His conscience, however, was entirely another affair.
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