But ere the words could find utterance, her maternal tenderness overcame her indignation; and, sinking upon her knees, she extended her arms over her child. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. “Sir John,” her aunt repeated, with thin emphasis, “is coming to see your sister. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. But he knew. Because of the woman’s pregnant status, a panic had spread in the county that a serial murderer was afoot, but she had made sure to copy the crimes of a famous serial killer that she had read about in the paper to cover herself and mislay blame. ‘Bête. But Miss Stanley took no notice of these things.
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