And at the thought of that other lover—he was convinced that that beloved person was a lover, and she found herself unable to say a word to explain to him that this other person, the person she loved, did not even know of her love—Ramage grew angry and savage once more, and returned suddenly to gibe and insult. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. 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. You get one, you get them all. His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe.
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