Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. “Your coffee’s too good to refuse. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. Anyhow, there it is: YOU ARE NOT GOING THERE. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. “Who, me? I scare you?” He asked.
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