” Anna shook hands with Brendon—a young man also, but older and more selfpossessed than Sydney Courtlaw. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. ” She said under her breath. The entire place was a masterpiece of wooden carving, a design of interleaving carried throughout. Anna lets the deception continue and has to bear the burden of her sister’s reputation which, in Paris at any rate, is that of being a coquette. I can’t love you.
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