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Ann Veronica sat firelit by her tea-tray with, quite unconsciously, the air of an expert hostess. There were no mourners. ‘By traitors I am surrounded!’ ‘Stop talking utter twaddle,’ ordered Roding, marching up to the desk. “You are Mademoiselle Pellissier?” he asked, without rising to his feet. Kneebone nodded. The rooks were cawing amid the boughs, and all nature appeared awaking to happiness.
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