The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her. Help—should she need it—from the natives was out of the question. It was a gracious gesture, she thought, as he trudged to the Beck’s humble doorstep in his stiff blue polyester uniform. "Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure. “I hope you will not compel me to say again that I do not know the man’s name, nor, to the best of my belief, have I ever seen him before in my life. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply.
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