The rest of his attire was nondescript. A quick flush stained her cheeks. “Is Miss Stanley coming up with us?” “I go second,” she said, “and change at Wimbledon. Pramlay received them in the pretty chintz drawing-room, which opened by French windows on the trim garden, with its croquet lawn, its tennis-net in the middle distance, and its remote rose alley lined with smart dahlias and flaming sunflowers. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. It was you, of course, whom he wanted.
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