Others pulled hats over their noses, cowered in their seats, and feigned that all was right with the world. That added to his puzzle. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. A deep dread calm, like that which precedes a thunderstorm, now prevailed amongst the assemblage. ‘Tell me, my boy.
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