He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. ‘He is not in England, you understand. If the creator drew a hero anything like himself, she would accept it as a sign that he did care a little. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. The gun flew from his hand, clacking on the floor. ‘And me, I am a lady. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. ” “And I may bring my luggage in and send that cabman away?” Anna asked.
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