“If only Sir John were not Sir John I would ask you to come and have some supper. ” Chapter XXXII SIX MONTHS AFTER Up the moss-grown path, where the rose bushes run wild, almost met, came Anna in a spotless white gown, with the flush of her early morning walk in her cheeks, and something of the brightness of it in her eyes. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. He’s been 274 lookin’ a little down lately.
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