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. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. “Annabel,” she said, “I have never asked you for your confidence. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. But from the rest—you saved me. Perhaps you'll next inform us why you have occasioned this disturbance. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. "There's nothing in his clothes.
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