Her mouth firm, delicately shaped, her figure slim-perfect in many ways. She was pretty, with regular features, a mop of brown hair in which the sunshine of childhood still lingered. His look was blank, though the director in him instinctively approved her values. But just at that moment, his respect for womanhood was something below zero. Ordinarily he would have risen, for this middle-aged American in normal moments was the soul of courtesy. It was not a propitious moment to approach him: nobody knew that better than she. Adele Leamington waited till the studio was almost empty before she came to where the white-haired man sat crouched in his canvas chair, his hands thrust into his trousers pockets, a malignant scowl on his forehead.
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