” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. . She had changed into dungarees herself and kept her hair as it was. Murder had become nothing to 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.
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