“Did he tell you, Annabel?” “Yes. ” The detective thrust his notebook into his pocket. It was now a quarter past twelve. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. ‘That is not your affair. ” Brendon reappeared, followed by a tall thin man with a stubbly brown moustache and restless grey eyes. ‘Something wrong, madame?’ Her fan came up swiftly, hiding the lower part of her face.
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