“It was poison—why not?” she answered. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. "We're forgetting," he said. He slid out of her. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair. He had only to recall this fact (which he did in each crisis) to erect a barrier she could not go around or over.
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