"How long shall I be here?" he asked. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. “Yeah, I’ve heard that story. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. She glared at him with satisfaction. But come, sir.
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