Now, will you do me the honour of lunching with me, Miss Pellissier?” Anna hesitated. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. Even given that he was hopelessly enamoured of the wench, a fact which was obvious to the meanest intelligence. “Here we are,” he said, “shining through each other like light through a stained-glass window.
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