’ She tossed her head. ‘I suppose he isn’t this Leonardo you spoke of?’ ‘Certainly he is not Leonardo. Her momentary instinct was to run to him and be comforted, like the old times. . She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. The curtain tinkled as her head brushed it, but he neither saw nor heard.
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