” “Thanks to me,” he repeated, puzzled. ‘What are you, a nincompoop? She was Nicholas’s wife, of course. Old London Bridge. It’s no good hiding it any more. You get one, you get them all. It resembled Mardi Gras, and she thought disdainfully of New Orleans. There was no broken faith—not even any question of anything of the sort. The lunches were individual affairs: sandwiches, bottled olives and jam commandeered from the Victoria. It was a letter.
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