“How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. At the same time Sydney and Brendon also vacated their places. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony.
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