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Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. He was sitting back from the table now, with one arm over the back of his green chair and the other resting on the little table. She decided to go out into the London afternoon again and get something to eat in an Aerated Bread shop or some such place, and perhaps find a cheap room for herself. We already had a place to mislay blame. ‘Is he meeting you here then, my dear?’ ‘He had better,’ said Lucilla. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. ‘I can’t tell you the times I’ve wished for a gun to point at Hilary’s head. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Conscience was always digging sudden pits for his feet and common sense ridiculing his fears.
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