“Had the pleasure of dining with you at the ‘Ambassador’s’ one night, before the show, you know—last September I think it was. She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. “No, she just worries that I’ll go Satanic and start chomping the heads off of bats and mice or something. A dissipated, loose-living man. “And of course you are my niece just as Annabel is, although I am sorry to learn that your conduct has been much less discreet than hers. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. She breathed deeply. My mom doesn’t realize that I’ve got my own style. "Don't ask me about it now.
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