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But assuredly. He would write it down for the signora. "He's in Normandy!" exclaimed Gillian in tones of bitter disappointment. "At what's the name of the place? Armanches. Oh, Dan! We've got to go right back to Paris again and then on to the coast." Her face was full of anxiety.
Storran put out his hand to steady her as the train jolted to a standstill. "Yes, we're here at last," he said. "Now to find a vehicle of some description to take us out to Armanches." As he had suggested it would, Gillian's collapse had delayed them some time.
Michael was not of the absent-minded type. Armanches was a tiny place on the Normandy coast, in reality not much more than a fishing village, but its possession of a beautiful plage smooth, fine, golden sands brought many visitors to the old-fashioned hostelry it boasted.
"The thing that puzzles me," she said as they started on the long drive from Bayeux to Armanches, "is why Michael didn't send his Normandy address to Madame Ribot. We should have been saved all that long journey to Rome if he had." "Perhaps he intended to, and forgot," suggested Dan. "Artists are proverbially absent-minded." But Gillian shook her head with a dissatisfied air.
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