Hang the wench! Roding was right. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. Sheppard, with a frenzied laugh. “The Widgetts,” she said.
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