The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. ‘Étes-vous Francais?’ Her eyes, he noted, followed from himself to Hilary and back again, but she did not speak. He recognized me at once, and he behaved like a madman. “My dear Anna,” he answered. CHAPTER XV.
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