. She tiptoed into the entryway where some decorator had placed a live orchid upon a glassy ebony table. “Please make yourselves comfortable while I see to the coffee. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. . ’ She edged sideways a little more, her eyes on the pistol in his hand. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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