Her aunt returned before the packing was done, and Ann Veronica lunched with an uneasy sense of bag and hold-all packed up-stairs and inadequately hidden from chance intruders by the valance of the bed. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. Sheppard put out her arms mechanically. She found no ready reply to that, and he went on: “This music is the food of love.
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