She saw now that it was not a dissipated face; it was as smooth and unlined as polished marble, which at present it resembled. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. “Very funny. The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. YOU did. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. Yes; she had heard the music the night before.
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