‘Jacques?’ ‘No. It isn’t as though I haven’t done well. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. The house was redolent with the smells of cinnamon baking and the stuffed turkey and marinated pork roast. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. She mentally reprimanded herself to alter her own visage so as not to appear depraved. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. They went on talking in the train—it seemed to her father a slight want of deference to him—and he listened and pretended to read the Times. She made a step forward. But she no longer felt Jacomo’s age, even if she looked it.
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