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Like a nightmare memory that returned again and again to haunt her. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. The fever came. The atmosphere seemed heavy with the odour of drugs. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. She changed into a halter top and a pair of tight jeans herself, and let Lucy brush her long, glossy hair as they talked about mascara, schoolwork, and boys. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. I don’t care WHAT happens. ” “As a matter of fact, I happen to have got a little into debt. But I swear she ain’t told me nothing more, sir. I might have told you the truth. “We won’t.
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