I can’t imagine Londoners—particularly interested in me. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. The vast mirrored chamber, with its four little square window bays, two either side of the large raised dais that led to the French doors, was very full of company for the start of the Little Season. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. And, if I can render you any service, you may command me.
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