It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac. Ann Veronica, after a last survey of the dinner appointments, followed him, rustling, came to his side by the high brass fender, and touched two or three ornaments on the mantel above the cheerful fireplace. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. Some of them are now buried at the bottom of the Thames. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. ‘Come on.
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