“Of course, one lives differently in Paris, but then—Paris is Paris. ‘Parbleu,’ she uttered indignantly. “I want,” he said, with a white hand outstretched, “to take you out to tea. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. Pretend to weep both of you as loudly as you can. ’ ‘Do you care to test that theory?’ Gerald suggested easily. ” Anna nodded and turned again to Courtlaw. There's a man dying—Captain Darrell.
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