‘Oh, peste, you make me late!’ She glared up at Roding. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. ‘Beg pardon, sir?’ asked the sergeant, evidently mystified. She hesitated about her name, and, being prompted, gave it at last as Ann Veronica Smith, 107A, Chancery Lane. Apparently he had projected beyond his table some hypnotic thought, for it had held him all through the dining hour. gutenberg.
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