His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. 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. “I’d have to sneak out after everyone was asleep. Who’s for a rubber of whist?” Ennison made so many mistakes that he was glad to cut out early in the evening.
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