A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. In vain Wood protested his innocence. ’ ‘Not, I trust, Nicholas Charvill?’ ‘Hardly. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside.
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