There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. He saw three people: a young man at the piano, an elderly man smoking in a corner, and a young woman reclining in a chair, her eyes closed. He shuddered. "How shall I get to you?" "My yacht is in the river. ” “You did not notice anything which may have escaped this lady? You saw no one leave the flats?” “No one,” Brendon answered. “You’re our superstar!” Turning to her foster father, she was bear hugged again, squashing the white carnations.
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