. His manner, however, was as stern and haughty as ever, and his glances retained their accustomed fire. She was not Madame Melusine Valade. They had changed identities absolutely. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. He could not quite make her out; a new type. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. The stranger looked at him as if strongly disposed to chastise his impertinence.
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