At the door through which she had entered the room stood the so-called Monsieur Valade. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. He waved to her. “He wants me to have dinner at his parent’s house tonight,” still looking at a series of spots on the carpeting. The little old lady struck like a projectile upon the resounding chest of the foremost of these, and then Ann Veronica had got past and was ascending the steps. She ignored it until it repeated itself. Even the most sullen and withdrawn were sensitive to the penetrating nastiness of the fog. ‘Expect? He’s had a twenty-four hour watch on Remenham House these two days.
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