The Other Miss Donne [antikvár]

CHAPTER ONE As the small aircraft climbed above patchy cloud-cover, heading east along the North African coast, its passengers adjusted themselves variously to the confines of its narrow cabin for the short flight to its touchdown at Hassi Aih. When the take-ofiE' warning light flicked out, Carey took from her bag the letter with the Moroccan postmark which had brought her on this impetuous hurry to her sister Rosalie's aid. By now she knew the letter almost by heart, but still read it again, feeling the same mingled indignation and pity as when it had awaited her on her return to their shared London flat, to find Rosalie gone to a hitherto unheard-of Hassi Ain, from which the letter had been sent. Preoccupied in a sea of tissue paper as she packed for her marriage at the weekend, their flat-mate, Myra Grant, had been able to supply a little flesh to the bare bones of the news Rosalie's letter had contained. Yes, of course, Myra said, she knew Rosalie had met and fallen hard for this boy, Martin Quest, as he had for her. He had just finished this course in hotel management, and though he really wanted to paint, he had been hauled back instead to manage the luxury hotel in Morocco owned by his elder brother, Randal. This, Myra continued, had reduced RosaHe to a wet rag of misery, and all Myra had been able to do was to make sympathetic noises until, by one of those chances that aren't supposed to happen, a vacancy for a social