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Byline: Hamish Bowles
Amanda Harlech is a creature of paradox. Here is Harlech, a Dresden figurine in Chanel's drifts of porcelain organza, a Nattier blue ribbon tied at her neck, frosted with old-mine diamonds, at the Rose Ball in Monte Carlo, breaking a sly, feline smile between princes Ernst August of Hanover and Albert of Monaco. And here is Harlech down on her English farm, a fey, wood-sprite beauty-jade-eyed, jet-haired, with a figure taut and lean as her beloved whippets, Lupin and Gabriella-undaunted as she juggles her horse-grooming duties while conjuring up a classic English Sunday roast for her dashing swain, farmer Neil Gittins, and fielding faxes ...