‘But, Gérard—’ ‘Don’t start arguing,’ he said in a tone that brooked no defiance. The Storm. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. He did like her, anyhow; he was always pleased to be with her.
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