" Some innate sense of balance told her that something was wrong with these tales. “Thank you, Martin,” she replied graciously. "Untie his arms, and take off that handkerchief. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. In vain Wood protested his innocence. A buxom piece, who looked, Gerald decided, as if she would be more at home in an amorous engagement in a hayloft than sitting demurely in a ballroom. ” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply.
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