“What do we really know about this girl, except that he met her in Namibia?” Margaret Whitmore asked her husband, Charles as she stood at the window of the drawing-room looking out at the snow covered grounds of the estate. Winter had come early, promising a white Christmas which was a couple of days away. her step-son, Clive had come home for the holidays and had brought a friend with him.
Charles glanced up from his newspaper, removed his pipe and replied, “Clive wrote to me about her. They met last year at a mutual friend’s engagement party.”
Margaret turned to face him. “He wrote to you about her?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I feel as if I know her very well. I think it’s serious.”
“Why do you say that?”
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