The little grating in the door, the sense of constant inspection, worried her. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. I give myself to you. Wood was heard without, angrily demanding admittance.
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