“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. “You must not think of me as one. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. She was always the last person to exit after the crowds had stampeded, trailing slowly behind them like dust.
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