That's the kind, my friend, that always fall soft. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. 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. Jack Sheppard's Escape from the New Prison.
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