You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. Probably the latter, for the thronging ballroom was insufferably hot. He was looking pale and ill. He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. He could have easily forced it, but preferred a more expeditious mode of reaching the roof which suggested itself to him. ‘Me, I am Mademoiselle Charvill, the granddaughter of Monsieur Jar-vis Re-men-ham. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself.
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