He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “The rarefied air? I thought you had a better head. Brendon’s guests,” she said, “and I scarcely think it would be nice of me to leave him alone with Sydney. He scratched his upper lip reflectively. Saint Giles's Round-house.
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