Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. All at once her heart began to patter queerly. But come, sir. Manning, “they’re a dream. ” Anna had reached the house where she lodged, but she hesitated on the doorstep. Walking into the bedroom, she quickly shed the miniskirt and sweater, folding them without ceremony. “Dear me,” she said, “I fancy you exaggerate my fame.
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