Bête, she told herself fiercely. She occupied a small sofa, a little apart, a ruddy-complexioned gentleman some years her senior beside her, and glanced about with an air of considerable unease. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. Knives were worse, especially when you were stabbed back and left traces of your own blood at the crime scene. I want to know more about her.
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