The curve of his shoulders, the very angle of his feet, expressed relief at her apparent obedience. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. He had grabbed a tiny remote control and flew the thing around the table, landing it there and turning it off. The only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart. Springing upon the box, he told the coachman to make the best of his way to Saint Giles's.
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