I wouldn't touch the stuff for all the pearls in India. In a moment or two, Madame Valade recovered her sangfroid. “Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. She carried herself well, whereas her brother slouched, and there was a certain aristocratic dignity about her that she had acquired through her long engagement to a curate of family, a scion of the Wiltshire Edmondshaws. An ugly flush stained his cheeks.
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