“It’s very late. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. One of those hanging moments ensued— hypnotic. ‘Hilary, you must stop referring to mademoiselle as “she”. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. "Enough," said the widow, gratefully. “How unkind!” she exclaimed. Nigel Ennison was he. Her feathered hat fell from her head and down her back, and she felt fingers writhing in the mass of her hair and caressing the flesh of her neck beneath so that she shivered uncontrollably. This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant. .
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