She did not forge a note. She listened with growing apprehension to the tale that Gerald told, omitting any mention of pistols and daggers, and at the end delivered herself of various expletives highly unsuited to a lady of her advanced years. My death, probably. It was Annabel who caught at the paper. A dissipated, loose-living man. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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