That is what my mother used to call me. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. Who is the beautiful intruder? And why does she disguise herself as a nun? Why is she involved in an enterprise both foolhardy and dangerous? The girl’s accent suggests an émigré but Mademoiselle insists she is English.
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