She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Anna was not “Alcide” of the “Ambassador’s,” whose subtly demure smile and piquant glances had called him to her side from the moment of their first meeting. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. She further suspected that he might find a servant to dally with in the meantime, if he had not already.
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