‘Bête,’ she flung at him. ” She made some inane response. My name is Annabel, not Anna. ” “I am going to pack my bag,” Anna answered. Sheppard, raising herself, and looking at him as if her life depended upon the answer. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. “You certainly are.
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