’ ‘And was not she put out?’ demanded Miss Froxfield with a tinkling laugh. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. She was fatigued physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body could rest. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets.
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