“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. “Yes,” said Ann Veronica, trying to think where they were, trying to get things plain again that had seemed plain enough in the quiet of the night. Not even, it seemed, this interfering monsieur le major. It was an oldfashioned peasant blouse, white, square necked, and trimmed with lace. The clerk at the Raffles Hotel had accorded her but scant interest. . A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters.
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