Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “One doesn’t wait,” said Ann Veronica. My heart misgives me. Come on. They seldom arrive on the beach. It was past seven when she got back to her hotel. And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do. She gazed with a quiet detachment toward the window and the Oxford Street traffic, and in her heart she was busy kicking this man to death. “You must have heard—have you—oh, tell me, won’t you?” she begged.
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