"His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. They fell in a diapason of smashes. “You hear him?” he remarked, looking impressively around. One doesn’t go about with these passions allayed simply because they have made wreckage and a scandal. She tried surreptitiously to reach her own dagger, in its cunning hiding place in her petticoat. 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. She hid behind a mirage of piety, just as I do. “Are you aware, Ann Veronica, you nearly throttled that gentleman?” Then she reviled her own foolish way of putting it. You have only to look resolute and proceed upon your way.
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