She was frowning, but it was evident that her initial fright had left her. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. Suddenly he came to a stop, his mouth agape. “No, he grabbed my hand. “I shall never be able to thank you. Madame Valade was that kind of woman. ” “Couldn’t I make a treaty?” Ann Veronica thought, and could not see any possible treaty that would leave it open for her to have quasi-surreptitious dinners with Ramage or go on walking round the London squares discussing Socialism with Miss Miniver toward the small hours. He needed to laugh, but only she laughed as he chuckled weakly. He turned back at once. “These clothes are French, and I’m sure this floppy bow would make a Frenchman of me anyhow. Getting pregnant in high school ended that dream for her.
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