“Not much. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. Quite right.
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