He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. ‘I—I mean, she were—’ ‘Pretty as a picture?’ suggested Gerald. I told them lies.
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