6: Invitation To Supper
MANON sat at an antique oak desk in front of the sitting-room window at her cottage. She was looking out of the window, over the little lawn bounded by the white fence, towards the orchard. On the left of the orchard, the country sloped gently upwards towards the Valeston woods.
The evening sun casting its final rays through the window caressed her blonde tresses. She did not appreciate the fact. Manon was not good-tempered. Life, she thought, could be quite lousy.
She yawned. Half-way through the yawn she made an attempt to stifle it with slender white fingers. Her eyes, cool and demure, rested on Callaghan's letter, which lay on the oak writing-desk at which she sat.
She thought: This Callaghan is a damned nuisance. He's made up his mind he's going to get some
