Martin came to the door, looking radiant and relieved. “You’re—I don’t know,” said Ann Veronica. He stared at her stupidly, forgetting to guard against the tactics he had come to expect from her. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. .
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