‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “I ought to have done anything! “What’s a man for? “Friendship!” He doubled up his fist, and seemed to contemplate thrusting it through the window. I love your very breath.
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