Anna sprang lightly away across the street. And it is not at all his affair. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. Now, in her old place, she was doing her best thoroughly to enjoy a most indifferent dinner. The figure she had longed to see came into her line of vision, but at this crucial moment of hideous realisation, Melusine barely took it in, her eyes fixing blankly on the man behind. “I’m not gentle. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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