She looked at him as he fingered a small switch on the side of the helicopter’s door. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. ’ ‘Hadn’t the wit, you mean.
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