"Beatrice, where do you think Sister Li has gone?" Nicholas Croft reined in his thoughts, asked softly, his downcast gaze resting on Beatrice Hargrave's face, where even the shadow cast by his fine lashes was gentle.
Beatrice pursed her lips, her index fingers unconsciously tapping each other, "How would I know? I'm not a fortune-teller."
Nicholas Croft...
He continued in a gentle voice, "Then can you make a call and ask?"
If he remembers correctly, this little imp gets along quite well with that woman.
"Doesn't Uncle Moore have Sister Li's number? He should ask her himself," Beatrice said dismissively, after all, it wasn't Sister Li who was anxious, and Beatrice couldn't care less.
The man who had been smoking with his head down finally deemed it worth his while to look up, fixing his eyes on Beatrice. Just a few days had passed, but his handsome face seemed much more haggard.
When he spoke, his voice was slightly hoarse.
