Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. " He shifted the pages together, rolled and thrust them under her arm. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord. The risk I run is nothing to yours. Anyhow, now you’ve begun it, there’s nothing to keep us in all this from being the best friends in the world. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman.
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