For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. “Have you any money?” “Lots,” Anna answered laconically.
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