With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. Never any doubt of it. Ramage demurred. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. Mr. Your reputation for hospitality would remain under a cloud though, for tea was distinctly mentioned. ” “Well,” she said, “has there not been some reason for this? The likeness to Annabel could scarcely have escaped remark. Escape was now impossible. 82 She was putting a manuscript away, gingerly locking its heavy tooled cover, but it was a huge, awkward tome.
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