That is my way, my dear. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly. 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. Her arms and feet were uncovered, and of almost skeleton thinness. “Called myself Anna,” the girl repeated coolly.
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