48 <6> THE FRIDAY NIGHT SHOW The air was chill and the sky overcast and misting. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. Oh, the scent of the flowers that day, the delicious quiet, the swallows that dived before us in the river. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. You DO understand?” “Who cares for most people?” she said, not looking at him.
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