He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. Smith's melody had subsided. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. “The truth!” Annabel bent over her and whispered in her sister’s ear. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. This is not what I want. He was no match for Brendon.
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