She pulled a few strands of her hair from her head to leave with Michelle’s. “Aunt!” she said, “I can’t—” Then she caught a wild appeal in her aunt’s blue eye, halted, and the door clicked upon them. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. They could not go on.
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