. ’ ‘Unless it is Captain Roding,’ put in Lucilla Froxfield from the curved back sofa on the other side of the fireplace. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. “You’ve no right to badger me like this, Veronica,” he said. I have unfinished business. The proa bore away to the northwest out of which it had come. Somebody ought to talk to him, warn him.
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