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Updated: June 6, 2025
Into the pink twilight of the curtained room came Maxine de Renzie, whose tall and noble figure I recognised in its plain, close-fitting black dress, though her wide brimmed hat was draped with a thickly embroidered veil that completely hid her face, while long, graceful lace folds fell over and obscured the bright auburn of her hair. "One moment," I said. "Let me push the curtains back.
For several years Mademoiselle de Renzie has done good service secret service, you must understand for Great Britain." "By Jove! Maxine a political spy!" Ivor broke out impulsively. "That's rather a hard name, isn't it? There are better ones. And she's no traitor to her country, because, as you perhaps know, she's Polish by birth.
George awfully jealous of her husband when he had such a fascinating beauty for his leading lady?" "I never heard that she was." "You needn't look cross with me. I'm not saying anything against your gorgeous Maxine." "Of course not. Nobody could. But you mustn't call Miss de Renzie 'my Maxine, please, Imp." "I beg your pardon," I said. "You see, I've heard other people call her that in joke.
Or that we would urge others to do?" I asked, hoping he would understand that I meant one other Maxine de Renzie. I guessed by his look that he did understand. It was a look of gloom; but suddenly a light flashed in his eyes. "There is one thing you could do for me you and no one else," he said. "But I have no right to ask it." "Tell me what it is," I implored.
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