He did not speak for a moment. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. The doll she had never owned, the cat and the dog that had never been hers: here they were, strangely incorporated in this sleeping man. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. Lee-o-no-ra. The Disguise. Niente. She and I were very close. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Wood—and after him came his daughter. Then she was out of the door and running, fast.
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