42_007之Goldfinger 金手指等390个文件_

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the 杭州足浴tykjmldl dainty tele-world of Herne Bay. The howl of Mansion sounded away on his right. A flight of three Super Sabres came in to land. They skimmed below his right-Hand horizon as if they were diving into the earth. With half his mind, Bond heard the 杭州水疗会所 roar of their jets catch up with them as they landed and taxied in to the hangars. He came up with a crossroads. To the left the signpost said RECULVER. Underneath was the ancient monument sign for Reculver church. Bond slowed, but didn’t stop. No hanging about. He motored slowly on, keeping his eyes open. The shoreline was too exposed for a trawler to do anything but beach or anchor. Probably Gold-finger had used Ramsgate. Quiet little port. Customs and police who were probably only on the look-out for brandy coming over from France. There was a thick clump of trees between the road and 杭州桑拿预约 the shore, a glimpse of roofs and of a medium-sized factory chimney with a thin plume of light smoke or steam. That would be it. Soon there was the gate of a long drive. A discreetly authoritative sign said THANET

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ALLOYS, and underneath: NO 杭州足浴合作商家 ADMITTANCE EXCEPT ON BUSINESS. All very respectable. Bond drove slowly on. There was nothing more to be seen. He took the next right-hand turn across the Manston plateau to Ramsgate.
It was twelve o’clock. Bond inspected his room, a double with bathroom, on the top floor of the Channel Packet, unpacked his few belongings and went down to the snack bar where he had one vodka and tonic and two rounds of excellent ham sandwiches with plenty of mustard. Then he got back into his car and drove slowly over to the Royal St Marks at Sandwich.
Bond carried his clubs to the professional’s shop and 杭州水疗会馆 through to the workroom. Alfred Blacking was winding a new grip on to a driver.
‘Hullo, Alfred.’
The professional looked up sharply. His sunburned, leathery face broke into a wide smile. ‘Why, if it isn’t Mr James!’ They shook hands. ‘Must be fifteen, 杭州桑拿价格 twenty years. What brings you down here, sir? Someone was telling me only the other day that you’re in the diplomatic or something. Always abroad. Well, I never! Still the same flat swing, sir?’ Alfred Blacking joined his hands and gave a low, flat sweep.
‘Afraid so, Alfred. Never had time to get myself out of it. How’s Mrs Blacking and Cecil?’
‘Can’t complain, sir. Cecil was runner-up in the Kent Championship last year. Should win it this year if he can only get out of the shop and on to the course a bit more.’
Bond propped his clubs up against the wall. It was good to be back. 杭州品茶sn微信 Everything was just the same. There had been a time in his teens when he had played two rounds a day every day of the week at St Marks. Blacking had always wanted to take him in hand. ‘A bit of practice, Mr James, and you’d be scratch. No fooling. You really would. What do you want to hang around at six for? It’s all there except for that flat swing and wanting to hit the ball out of sight when there’s no point in it. And you’ve got the temperament. A couple of years, perhaps only one, and I’d have you in the Amateur.’ But something had told Bond that there wasn’t going to be a great dea