” A momentary bitterness crept into Anna’s tone. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. (“No, no. ’ ‘Gérard,’ she said, giving the French version with a soft “g” and not quite managing the “l”. “Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. Then she reverted to the trousers. Their flitting hands were always touching. The aunt rushed over to her nephew, knelt and wrapped him in her arms.
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