" "What is this to me, Sir?" said Trenchard, cutting him short. It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. "I've won, after all. But, you see, I’m smirched. ‘Yes, but I’m probably chasing moonbeams. She nuzzled his chest and he breathed deeply of the scent of her Finesse conditioner. ‘You mean I should give myself a dressingdown? Very well. Yet the smoke was curling upwards in a faint innocent-looking cloud to the ceiling. ” “And mine,” murmured his companion, with the smile still lingering upon his lips. The Red Room. The women, Ann Veronica thought, were not quite so interesting as the men. He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Finally, at the exit into Regent’s Park, they ran against Miss Klegg.
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