. ’ ‘You should be happy that you are not dead,’ she retorted, but with a diminution of the venom and fright in her voice. She felt her heartbeat accelerate until it was pounding her chest. Her English was halting. He would ask her to come to dinner with him in some little Italian or semiBohemian restaurant in the district toward Soho, or in one of the more stylish and magnificent establishments about Piccadilly Circus, and for the most part she did not care to refuse.
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