He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. To-morrow I am going to Paris. It is quite a descent from the clouds, isn’t it?” “I will accept that,” Anna said, “as accounting for the surprise. I’m not mad that he has eyes for you instead of me, not mad at all. Our quarrel's quite over. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. .
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