As they drove along in the car Rupert had hired, not a breath of wind stirred the palm trees as they flashed past. Two Welsh cobs were being harnessed to a sledge which was being loaded up with Christmas trees by a man in a red coat. He was the kindof Englishman one used to see in old war movies, Trevor Howard or Michael Redgrave, who hid any emotion behind a clipped voice, a stiff upper lip and sangfroid. Since then the only female in Billy’s life has been Mavis, his blonde mongrel, who follows him everywhere, bestowing a slit-eyedexpression of marked disapproval on any lady intruder.
Across the yard in the sitting room, lovingly polished by Tory, were all his silver cups. “Oh, yes, please,” said Tory. “I gather Billy Lloyd-Foxe is back in the team, too,” said Jake. Her ears twitched and turned all the time, as sensitive as radar.
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