She stepped into his arms. “But don’t you know about me?” he said at last. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. ’ Grasping the lantern, and heedless now of the discomforts of the passage, Melusine flew like the wind back towards the library, the vision of Jack Kimble’s white face driving her on. He went over his interview with her again, their conversation at dinner-time. 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.
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