Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. Then to Martin's brandy-shop, in Fleet Street. She shut her lips hard, her jaw hardened, and she set herself to struggle with him. Voilà tout. Norris was so frightened that she ordered the postboys to drive back as fast as they could. Whenever I feel particularly gregarious, I take the launch and run over to Copeley's and play poker for a couple of days. Phillips Oppenheim’s most intriguing stories.
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