Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Beneath the serene unconcern of Ann Veronica’s face was a boiling tumult. “Don’t be childish, Annabel. I wonder. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh.
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