Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. I would like to talk to you about this—soon. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. “Drive to 13, Montague Street, cabman,” she ordered. Then she was turning, ignoring the muttered cursing and the rattling that immediately ensued at the door.
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