Esmeralda. Бетти Нилс

the cars would be his. There was a predominance of small, ugly Citroëns, large handsome Citroëns, and Mercedes, but none of these were his. He stopped beside a Bristol 114, large, elegant, and a pleasing shade of dark grey; a very expensive car, she knew that, with a subdued, understated style which made the cars around it look a little vulgar. She thanked the porter, got into the front seat at Mr Bamstra’s invitation, and waited while the porter was tipped, her baggage stowed and her companion had taken his place beside her.

      ‘It was kind of you to meet me,’ she observed as he wove his way towards the motorway running close to the airport. ‘Are we going straight to the hospital?’