Enter Lavinia, the Romanian facial goddess, working at Paul Labrecque Salon.
Her heart beating wildly, her breath laboured, Lavinia went in; she shut the door behind her and sped up the passage.
Lavinia was certain that if Gheta had not known of it the Spaniard would have been quickly dropped by the elder.
Lavinia and Nancy were sitting together in the salon when he reached home.
Miss Lavinia saw them enter the big iron gates, and saw their hesitation when they were parted.
It had needed only a glance at the wound on Lavinia's head to convince him that it had been made by a bullet.
