‘She may well try to go back. And then you can go home and think things over before we talk again. Dim possibilities that she would not seem to look at even to herself gesticulated in the twilight background of her mind. Oh, and only look at those stains,’ cried Miss Froxfield, gesturing at the blood on the ruffles to the sleeves of Melusine’s riding-habit, and on the chemise she wore under it. She opened the window, for the night was mild, and sat on the floor with her chin resting upon the window-sill.
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