The girl had told him distinctly that her name was Anna. All the precious paintings and statues of the divine family were here, as was the enormous wooden crucifix set above the altar. God, how old are they now? They must be teenagers. 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. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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