S. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. “The life of a private secretary is positively one of slavery. Wild allowed you to have your fine clothes again, or you might have been taken in a still more disgraceful garb. “Isn’t that rather a strange question—under the circumstances?” he asked quietly. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. “Get you a cold one?” “No thanks. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity.
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