’ Mrs Sindlesham’s mouth dropped open. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. She turned and looked at the red LED of the alarm clock that read 3:55. ” “Won’t you postpone the attempt, then?” he said gallantly, “until I have done something to deserve your gratitude? You will not forget—seven-thirty, Café Maston, Boulevard des Italiennes. ” The redness in his face betrayed him.
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