The agonized mother could scarcely repress a scream at the spectacle that met her gaze. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. Loving was better than that. I do not wish to return to Paris. It was quite dark; but as some of the assemblage carried links, it was soon ascertained to be headed by the same party who had mainly incited the former disturbance. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna.
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