“This wonderful affection of yours for my sister, does it date from your first meeting with her in Paris?” He hesitated. There were moments when she doubted whether the whole mass of movements and societies and gatherings and talks was not simply one coherent spectacle of failure protecting itself from abjection by the glamour of its own assertions. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly. Twenty guineas, mind. A remittance man. “There’s no one here except me.
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