It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman. Her father had determined on a new line. ‘Besides, I don’t want the men blundering in here and frightening off our spy. But to confess about Gerald— no, a thousand times. She also knew that he was the type who would not make a single physical overture until she pushed the correct buttons. She trailed him to his apartment and a black door that read 727 in solemn gold-tone lettering. It reached her only slowly that Ann Veronica was standing to her resolution. Paintings sold off the walls. White men and natives dealt conveniently at Copeley's.
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