“And this is Mr. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. Anna, in her strange striking way, was radiantly beautiful. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. But her great-aunt was nodding, as if this was what she had expected. You knew me in Paris. She felt that perhaps, in her desire to play an adequate part in the conversation, she had talked rather more freely than she ought to have done, and given him a wrong impression of herself. She had in her suitcase a small scrapbook, only a few pages, what little information she had gathered on him through the years.
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