A bowl of roses, just brought by Ann Veronica, adorned the communal dressing-table, and Ann Veronica was particularly trim in preparation for a call she was to make with her aunt later in the afternoon. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. She could even think of what had happened. Your name. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. More importantly, she had her wits.
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