He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. I picked up her handkerchief on the floor. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. Nor Jacques. ‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly.
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