“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. The man looked as though he would have liked to deny it, but could not. “Not like it’s your fault if you wake up one day and decide you hanker for a nice piece of ass, a ten-minute tumble. ‘You could not tell it,’ said Melusine, ‘unless you were as close as we. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. A wrathful God was watching him. The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. “Dinner is served, m’m,” said the efficient parlor-maid in the archway, and the worst was over.
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