She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down. Perhaps Ferringhall has pensioned her off. He got out of the car and lifted her from the convertible before she could open the door. “We played at love-making in Paris. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment.
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