She knew it. The soi-disant Valade held the centre of the room now, only an uncovered but closed card-table, its surface dusty, between him and the suite at the fireplace. “Yes, but I act older than I look. Also he had said—laughing in that way with his eyes which made a flutter in her chest— that Prudence will find an Englishman to marry her. Then he turned to Anna. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness.
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