” “But, my dear Peter!” said Miss Stanley. “I can’t conceive what you want. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. A wrathful God was watching him. Miss Stanley walked round the garden thinking, and presently house and garden reverberated to Ann Veronica’s slamming of the front door. Or perhaps my father once. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door. ‘So this is Pottiswick’s French spy.
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