But I will disappoint you. I do not wish to return to Paris. “No, John, you won’t understand. ” Anna had suddenly stiffened. ” “I wish you would use my Christian name,” he said. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. Yet there was nothing for her to do. I’ve had the rarest luck and fallen on my feet. Now, for the cage, my pretty canary-bird. “The rest,” she said, holding tightly to his hands, “is the most important of all.
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