“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. ‘I can manage now. Every now and then something familiar in her tone, the poise of her head, the play of her eyes startled him. It makes no difference. It would be easy enough for me to write an eloquent letter about something else. I say again, grace à vous.
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