"Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. He then arose, and, taking a few turns in the chamber, stopped suddenly before her. To call yourself ‘Alcide’! Your hair, your gestures, your voice, all mine! Oh, how dared you do it?” “You must not forget,” Anna said calmly, “that it is necessary for me also—to live. It is her duty to tell me, and I would not have her think that I had been trying to work upon your sympathies to learn her secrets.
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