CHAPTER XVII. You mustn't go dressing up Tom, Dick, and Harry in Henry Esmond's ruffles. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. “We are so interested to hear, Miss Pellissier,” she said, “that you have been living in Paris.
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