‘Who me, sir? Lor’ no, sir. Capes was rather a discovery. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. ‘But only think, Hilary,’ Lucy protested, evidently too involved in her theory to waste time in scolding.
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