” Sir John coughed. If you can imagine it, I survived it. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. She got up, put the neat cuffs she had made into her work-basket, and went to the bureau for the little cards in the morocco case. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. Wood in a sharp tone. ” “Thank you, Jane.
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