I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. Poor girl! she was beautiful once; so beautiful as to make me, who care little for the allurements of women, fancy myself enamoured of her. Do you think she does?” Ann Veronica picked among her salad with a judicial expression of face. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. ‘Get you invited to a party where the French émigrés will be present? Nothing easier, dear boy.
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