Then I tucked it nice and snug under the saddle-bag. She opened it and imbibed. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. ” She opened the car door for herself. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. Irreton. “All right so far,” she said to herself. Something or other—she did not catch what—he was damned if he could stand. She dreaded living off the land again, like an animal, as she had done for dozens of years at a stretch. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like.
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