But if I painted her as I'd like to, the natives would instantly distrust me; and I'd have to build up confidence all over again. She had resisted as long as she could; then she had stolen over. That is what my mother used to call me. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess.
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