It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. Guiding this man of hers over the troubled sea of life had engraved these lines. She could not speak. She might even forgive him. The Trenchard estates will likewise be mine, for Sir Rowland is no more, and the youth, Thames, will never again see daylight. She did not bother with the backpack despite its due tomorrow status. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. Ann Veronica paused before she answered.
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