“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. "A storm!" exclaimed the landlord. As Leonardo had himself pronounced, who better than a mountebank to teach of the perils awaiting the unwary? Who better than a wastrel to demonstrate the worth of thrift? And who could instruct better in the matter of affections than one who had thrown them away? ‘If he had loved me,’ she said, in the flat tone she had learned to use to conceal her vulnerable heart, ‘he would have left me at Remenham House to live a life of an English lady. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. Probably a sick man's whim.
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