" "Come this way, Mr. ” John tried to direct the topic away from him. The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. Sir John heard gossip about us—about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few—which were true. Anna turned deliberately away from the bedside. Such was his fury, that if he had not been restrained by the presence of the two turnkeys, he might perhaps have anticipated the course of justice, by laying violent hands upon his victim. They all balk because there aren't any petticoats. You have changed from the veriest butterfly to a woman—you wear different clothes, you have the air of another world.
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