She had slapped him away with her free hand and the finger was released suddenly, sending her careening to the floor. She looked from Anna, who was far too nice-looking to be travelling about alone, to that reassuring pile of luggage, and wrinkled her brows thoughtfully. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. ‘André? Que dit-il?’ ‘My wife does not understand,’ said the fellow, frowning deeply. Now tell them why. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. I wish they would just get it over with. She had but to choose.
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