There was nothing to be learned from her face. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. “You doubted me?” She joked. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. A certain irritation crept into his manner as he did so. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. “Mr.
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