"What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. "I'm not particular about rooms. "I must tell you," she was saying. "This Enschede—the missioner. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. I was grateful. You’re not to go.
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