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Jack's nose was broad and flat; Darrell's straight and fine as that of Antinous. ‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. The girl who had just left the room was as great a mystery to him now as on the afternoon when he had met her in Piccadilly and taken her to tea. Her back arched slightly in response. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag.
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