” “Let us say that Café Maston, in the Boulevard des Italiennes, at half-past seven then,” he decided. Ann Veronica forgot him as soon as she was through the gate, and her face resumed its expression of stern preoccupation. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. Mr. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. You know I call that positively wicked.
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