Anna lets the deception continue and has to bear the burden of her sister’s reputation which, in Paris at any rate, is that of being a coquette. She noted the dank hair on his forehead, the sweat of revolting nature. She grew perhaps a shade paler, and she glanced out into the street, where her four-wheeler cab, laden with luggage, was still waiting. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean.
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