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VII
thing blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road!
Pretty hopeless driving in England, anyway…Not like France where you
really could let out…’
Should he stop here for a drink, or push on? Heaps of time! Only an-
ing hot day!
This island place ought to be rather good fun—if the weather lasted.
was rather good at nosing people like that out. Of course, he had to, poor
old chap, with no money of his own…
Hope they’d do one well in drinks. Never knew with these fellows who’d
made their money and weren’t born to it. Pity that story about Gabrielle
Turl having bought Soldier Island wasn’t true. He’d like to have been in
with that film star crowd.
Oh, well, he supposed there’d be a few girls there…
Coming out of the hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the
blue sky and climbed into the Dalmain.
Several young women looked at him admiringly—his six feet of well-
proportioned body, his crisp hair, tanned face, and intensely blue eyes.
He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street. Old men
and errand boys jumped for safety. The latter looked after the car admir-
ingly.
Anthony Marston proceeded on his triumphal progress.
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