Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. It began in the eyes and spread to the lips: warm, embracing, even fatherly. It is the only way. Then, as he was trying to bite through the rope, I told him, ‘That’s for 107 Traci, motherfucker. I suppose this is the sort of damned rubbish—” “Oh! Ssh, Peter!” cried Miss Stanley.
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