" "Who are you?" ejaculated Trenchard, scarcely able to credit his senses. There was a lapse of time, an interval of blackness; then he found his hand in hers and she was leading him at a run up the side of the mountain. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. ” Her words were slurred with sleep. She examined Michelle’s pale face.
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