Her sense followed the shoulders under his coat, down to where his flexible, sensitive-looking hand rested lightly upon the table. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. This man and he were alike, and about the same age. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets.
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