He stood outside of the car, bewildered, as she walked up to the BMW’s front bumper. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. ‘Jacques?’ she called. “Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight. “They seem smaller, you know, even physically smaller,” she said. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. And catching hold of Thames, he quitted the deck. ’ ‘It could hardly be less so,’ said Mrs Sindlesham tartly. Pray, walk in. "Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude.
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