Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. ‘I have not asked for this trouble from anyone. ’ ‘Oui, mais—safe. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. “Would YOU like us—if some one told you the bare outline of our story?— and what we are doing?” “I shouldn’t mind,” said Ann Veronica.
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