She was a small blonde, not handsome, but with a flair for fashion demonstrated by her elegant chemise gown in the very latest Canterbury muslin, with its low décolletage barely concealed under a fine lawn handkerchief set about her shoulders, and decorated with a mauve satin sash at the waist. She still could not muster the strength to leave. She did not resist him, she could not. You care for me a little, I know. It would have given me intense satisfaction to have been able to catch a French spy. “And what is it all about, Veronica?” he asked, with a deliberate note of irony, looking at her a little quizzically over his glasses. And we’re going to fight that old world down there. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. The door opened.
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