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Then she looked up at Brendon. He was a Wiltshire Edmondshaw, a very old family. Raymond Plote would only be missed by his mother. Together they crept through the erstwhile drawing room and entered the massive flagged hall. ” “I wonder,” he said, a trifle irrelevantly, “what the future has in store for you. “Rubbish!” he answered. “Garçon,” he said, “will you ask the gentleman at the next table if he will do me the honour of taking a glass of wine with me. “What do you mean, Annabel? You only knew Mr.
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