" His demeanour was polished; his manners singularly affable and gentle; and he was remarkable, for the generosity of his temper. She was furiously angry. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. Not with the unavoidable explanations, and the need to secrete the sword and hide it before returning the priest’s horse to its stable—which had been her excuse for running from Martha’s protestations. She did not have to investigate that his door was locked. The room behind was another small antechamber, presumably linking the back rooms. She had been in the drawing-room for a few minutes before the gong had sounded, and had chattered gaily to every one. "To the best of my belief, Thames Darrell has been murdered by you. I was afraid that I might be called upon as a witness. " He did not reply. I’m not a lovesick boy. And a ballot-box—” Her face assumed an expression of intellectual conflict.
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